Harry Potter and the Accidental Horcrux
by the Imaginizer
Summary: In which Harry Potter learns that friends can be made in the unlikeliest places...even in your own head. Alone and unwanted, eight-year-old Harry finds solace and purpose in a conscious piece of Tom Riddle's soul, unaware of the price he would pay for befriending the dark lord. But perhaps in the end it would all be worth it...because he'd never be alone again.
1. The Start of a Beautiful Friendship

**Disclaimer:** consider this disclaimed.

 **Author's Note:** Most of the important information about this story can be found above. It's 272,000 words long, so it's a bit of a time commitment, it's rated T, so there's some mature material but not too much, and from the summary (which after seventy-four million, two hundred and sixty-three thousand, four hundred and eighty-eight tries I'm finally satisfied with) you can probably glean that this is one of those stories where the piece of Voldemort's soul in Harry's head wakes up and begins to change his life, for better or for worse. Below are some fun facts that you probably won't be able to deduce from the aforementioned information.

 **Scope:** This story covers Harry's pre-Hogwarts years, and years 1 through 3. A sequel covers 4 - the end.

 **What this story is not:** Slash (most of the characters in this story are under fourteen, so there will be no romance...as for the sequel, though it will not be a slash story per se, there will be non-heterosexual relationships mentioned), a dark!Harry story (this is more a matter of opinion...I don't consider my version of Harry to be 'dark', but I know that others do), or bashing (I try to never demonize characters for the sake of plot development).

 **Genre:** This is a coming of age story, and will focus a lot on Harry's psychological development and the relationships he builds. I tend to keep things fairly light-hearted, and when the story is not in a particularly dark or solemn place, I do employ a fair bit of humour. I like to make people laugh, and even though this isn't a comedy, it's still supposed to be fun. That being said, there are some very dark themes that weave their way through the story, and the overarching plot is quite grim.

 **Warnings and rating:** This story is rated 'T', but it's more on the mature side of 'T'. The rating is for: depictions of abuse, violence, mental illness, and substance abuse, and some uncouth language. Fair warning, the sequel is rated 'M'.

 _Anyway_ , I think I've covered all the bases, and if you've made it this far and still want to give this a read, I want to thank you for your interest in my story, and I truly hope that my writing can keep you entertained. Again, thank you for reading, have fun, and enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 1: The Start of a Beautiful Friendship**

The morning was crisp, still, and bathed in a delicate golden light – just like any self-respecting August morning should be. August was a month that could only be described as sweet - the way the sun kissed the ground lovingly, its glow adorning everything it cast its gaze upon even on the cloudiest of days, was truly the opposite of everything bitter and dark in the world. It was this sweetness that set it apart from the other months.

But August was not only sweet - it was also useful. Seven o'clock was often an unkind hour, still tightly embraced by the chill of night. October through March, seven o'clock could hardly be called morning at all; it was a cold hour shrouded in grey. April and September weren't much better. August, however, changed all this. August mornings were nothing short of pleasant, and this is indeed what made hiding out in the yard a more than acceptable morning activity. Really, he couldn't help but muse, sitting under the old oak tree at seven o'clock, with the August sun warming his face, wasn't so bad - a decent way to start the day.

It was quiet. He liked that. It was times like this that he could really _feel_. It was times like this when his mind could work its magic, gathering data and processing stimuli with exquisite attention to detail. Yes, seven o'clock was the perfect time to _notice_ things. Like grass. There was a unique and stimulating quality to the manner in which the damp, feathery tendrils tickled his legs, complemented by the subtle breeze that swept over the yard, tousling his neat raven locks in a way that would have been adorable. But it was not. There was nothing adorable about him; even the tranquility of an August morning would not allow him to forget that. And anyone who'd seen his eyes would no doubt agree; they were cold and dark, belied by his soft, sweet, August-like features. Yes, everyone thought him a perfect angel until they looked him in the eye. Then they knew. He was no August child - he had been born in December.

"Tom!"

It was an ugly screeching sound, causing him to hiss angrily and grit his teeth. Mrs. Cole had no doubt heard the story – Stubbs had of course gone to her again, whining and moaning like the incompetent child he was. Honestly, Tom couldn't be blamed for his actions; Billy Stubbs, with all his snide comments, flippant gestures, and grating voice, he deserved it, and much, much more. There was something simply horrible about that boy. The spiders agreed with him - the spiders that had marched dutifully up his trousers not 10 minutes ago, no doubt leaving him with nasty bites all over. Of course, the Stubbs boy didn't have any proof of his involvement, but he didn't need any. Everyone knew about Tom's strangeness – namely, his uncanny ability to train animals without lifting a finger.

A contemptuous sneer washed over his face. Stubbs had gotten off easy this time. The stupid boy would get what was coming to him. That is, when the time was right. Mrs. Cole always said not to play with his food – so, naturally, that's exactly what he planned to do.

"There you are!"

He glanced up sharply, scowling.

"Now, don't give me any of that, you naughty boy! I heard what you did – I heard -"

He drowned out the woman's angry scolding, dark thoughts welling up in his mind. He'd show them. He'd show them all. Tom Riddle was not to be messed with. Except...

He faltered.

That wasn't right. Tom Riddle? That's not right. Why was he so angry? Poor Billy Stubbs, the boy didn't deserve all those spider bites, not really anyway. His mind reeled from shock – he didn't mean it. He didn't mean any of it! He didn't want to hurt anyone. He didn't mean to be a bother. But as soon as he turned around to announce his revelation, he was met with nothing but darkness. A cold, empty black, that thankfully only lasted a second.

"BOY!"

Three sharp knocks had him scrambling out of bed, frantically trying smooth down his notoriously prominent bedhead before sliding on his broken glasses and flipping the latch on his cupboard door.

He was met not with the righteous anger of Mrs. Cole, but rather the equally intimidating scowl of Petunia Dursley.

"It's seven-thirty! Breakfast should already be on the table, you lazy child!"

"Yes Aunt Petunia," he responded blandly, earning himself a light slap over the head.

"I'll have none of your cheek, boy."

He bit back a scathing retort – because that's not who he was. He wasn't angry, he wasn't vindictive; he was weak, an easy target – that's who Harry Potter was.

Sometimes it was hard to remember who he was, in the mornings. There were times, when still immersed in a sleepy haze, that he had to remind himself that he was not Tom Riddle. Nor did he want to be. Tom Riddle was not a good person. Harry knew this, and he really didn't know why he kept dreaming about the ill-manered boy. It was a little strange, a little eerie, how every night his consciousness was ferried away into the life of this other boy, so alike him in some ways, but terribly dissimilar in others.

Still, he didn't mind the dreams, he mused as he cracked a few eggs onto the skillet. That was actually an understatement. In fact, he wouldn't trade them for anything. When he was Tom, he was never afraid, he was never unsure of himself. When he was bullied, he fought back. When he was wronged, he wronged in turn. When he was called a freak, he wore it like a badge of honour. It was freeing, being without guilt, without the sense of worthlessness and hopelessness that seemed to follow him around everywhere and everywhen. No, Harry Potter was not Tom Riddle, but sometimes he wished he was. Sometimes it was hard to convince himself that he never wanted to become such a cruel person.

"Don't burn anything! Vernon will be furious." It was a fact, not a warning.

"Yes Aunt Petunia."

Tom wouldn't say something like that. Never. That's how he knew he wasn't still dreaming. Yes, he was definitely Harry Potter.

* * *

"And then I told Summers that if he didn't move out of the way, I'd kick him real hard."

"And did you, big D?"

"He cried like little baby, too!" his rotund cousin crowed, as his equally distasteful friends howled with laughter.

Harry glared at them from the swing-set, not impressed with the story at all. He looked away quickly though, hoping he wasn't noticed.

No such luck.

"Hey freak! You got something to say to me?"

He cowered a little, and almost shook his head meekly, but instead he froze. There were times when Harry Potter was a very practical boy - in fact, dare he say it, he was usually quite smart. He knew when to keep his head down. Don't speak unless spoken to, look at the ground, keep your face blank - he knew all the rules; he'd written them himself. But there were times when he was overtaken by this strange sentiment - this yearning for something more, something better. When it seized him, he liked to think of it as bravery.

"I do, actually."

"Oh yeah? And what's that, _freak_?"

He took a deep breath. "I think you're stupid, and weak, the lot of you. I wish I'd never heard your ugly voices, and I think the world would be a better place if no one had to hear them again!"

The three bigger boys gaped at him for a moment. But only for a moment, before fury overtook them.

"Get him!"

That was when the sentiment abandoned him, and Harry's eyes widened in fear before he turned around and sprinted away from the playground, Dudley and his friends hot on his trail.

Bravery indeed. More like stupidity.

Thus began the sport known as 'Harry Hunting'.

* * *

They never caught him, at first – he was much faster than they were. Unfortunately, Dudley wasn't quite as stupid as his dimwitted friends, and he discovered rather quickly that there were other ways to go about catching a Harry. After all, after the front door of Number 4 Privet Drive was locked and sealed, there was no where left to run.

"The freak stole my lunch!"

"He ripped up the picture I drew for you, mummy!"

By the time they were in the first grade, Dudley had discovered the fine art of blackmail.

That's when Harry Hunting became a rigged game; when Harry and Dudley reached the unspoken agreement that unless Harry gave himself up by the end of the day, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would hear all sorts of nasty lies about him. There was simply no winning for Harry.

He knew it was just a game. But it still hurt to lose, both literally and figuratively. Weren't games supposed to be fun?

"You should be happy, freak, no one else will play with you."

It was true. Dudley made sure everyone knew there was something wrong with him. What it was, Harry didn't know. Neither did Dudley, really. Sure, strange things tended to happen around Harry. But it wasn't his fault, or at least he didn't think so. So what? Sometimes things change colour, move, explode...it's not that unusual, he would think to himself. It was a natural sort of denial, and it lasted until March 2nd, 1987.

It started out as a normal day.

"What are you smiling about, boy?" Vernon growled from behind him.

He wiped the grin off his face, but it wasn't enough to dampen his spirits. He'd dreamt of Tom again last night – he'd dreamt of the day Tom met his first friend.

Last night, it was summer again; that much was evident from the way the humid, warm air clung to his skin like a wet blanket. The sun merrily danced in the sky, obstructed only by a few wisps of cloud, while a pleasant breeze danced in the leaves and the grass, carrying with it the sweet sound of songbirds and laughing children.

Tom _hated_ summertime. The mornings were nice, but the rest of it was rubbish. Everyone was always so happy, so cheerful, so _loud_. Honestly, could they hear themselves? Screaming joyously without a care in the world, footsteps thumping happily throughout the yard – disgusting, the lot of them. He wasn't jealous. Of course not. He didn't need friends, or fun, or games. He wasn't some stupid child who needed to be coddled and distracted from the cares of the world. He knew better.

: _You seem sad.:_

Tom blinked, his head whipping from side to side. Had someone found his hiding place?

: _Who's there?:_

: _You can hear me?:_

Tom growled. : _Where are you!?:_

: _Down here.:_

His eyes travelled downward, and he started a bit when he saw the new addition to his hiding spot; a small green serpent, tongue flicking out amiably as its head rocked from side to side.

: _Are you_ talking _to me?:_

The snake made a sound that could only be interpreted as a bemused huff.

: _Well there's no one else here, is there?:_

Tom just stared.

The snake sighed. : _Cheer up, it's not every day I meet a two legged creature that can hear my words. You must be really special.:_

: _You're a snake.:_

: _Yes.:_

: _And you're talking.:_

: _Evidently.:_

Tom sucked in a deep breath. : _Are you the devil?:_

The snake cocked its head to the side : _The what?:_

: _Satan. The serpent.:_

 _:My name's Cici, not Satan. That's an awfully strange name. Are_ you _Satan?:_

Tom's lips twitched. : _The other children seem to think I am.:_

Cici looked terribly confused at that.

Tom rolled his eyes. : _They don't like me much.:_

: _Why? You're obviously of superior breeding – you speak the eloquent tongue of serpents, after all.:_

Tom's small smile transformed into a full-on grin. : _Finally, someone who agrees with me.:_

: _Do you like them?:_

: _What?:_

: _You said they don't like you much. Do you like them?:_

: _Of course not. They're loud, and crass, and stupid. I'd rather cut my own finger off than call any of_ them _my friend.:_

: _You don't have any friends?:_

: _No, I don't need any.:_

: _You should meet my friends!:_

Tom narrowed his eyes. : _Why?:_

: _So we can all be friends together, of course!:_

Tom stared at the little creature for a moment, before his face morphed into the strangest expression – one might even call it _tender. :Alright. That doesn't sound so bad.:_

Cici made a pleased hissing sound.

: _My name's Tom, Tom Riddle.:_

: _A pleasure to meet you Tom.:_

A smile worked its way onto Harry's face again, as he recalled the dream. It was the first time he had genuinely wanted to be Tom Riddle. The unfamiliar feeling of warmth that flooded his chest when he made his first friend was something that Harry coveted for himself.

That's when he got the idea. He'd later come to reminisce on this idea with mixed feelings.

Either way, the idea went roughly like this; Tom Riddle wasn't really the most agreeable bloke. He was rude and unkind, and he took great pleasure in hurting whoever bothered him. Harry knew he was much nicer than Tom. So if Tom could make a friend, why couldn't he? It wasn't too strange an idea.

That's why, instead of finding his own secluded corner to eat his meagre meal in peace – away from Dudley's grabby hands and wayward feet – he sat down beside Lisa Alberts at lunch that day.

She was small, like him, and quiet too. Really, they had a lot in common. She had messy hair and glasses, just like him, and she liked to draw pictures of lakes and rivers, like he did. They both favoured the dark blue crayon.

"Hi," he said, not really knowing what else to say. It seemed like a decent way to start a conversation.

She looked up at him, her pretty face somewhat puzzled. "Hi."

First contact established. Things were going well.

Harry blushed, his heart suddenly fluttering in his chest. Could she be it? His first friend.

 _Pull it together, Harry, you can do this_.

"My name's Harry. Can I sit with you?" he said with a nervous grin.

Lisa smiled. "I know who you are."

Harry's grin faltered a bit. "You do?"

"Yeah! You draw nice pictures!"

Harry could feel relief wash over him like a tidal wave. The _one_ person Dudley hadn't managed to poison against him. He couldn't believe his luck. "Thanks! Yours are nice too."

Lisa's smile grew wider, and encouraged, he sat down beside her.

"Why aren't you playing over there with the other boys?"

Harry's gaze strayed to the playground. "I could ask you the same. The other girls are way over there."

Lisa blushed. "Sometimes I don't know what to say, so I don't bother saying anything."

Harry nodded. "You're talking to me just fine though."

"You're nice though. And friendly."

"You think so?"

Lisa was about to respond, but she froze as the subtle warmth of the late winter sun vanished behind the imposing figure that had somehow managed to sneak up on them. "Can we help you?"

Dudley smirked, and Harry audibly groaned.

"Is this freak bothering you?"

Lisa started in surprise, and was about to reply, before Harry stood up and stepped between his cousin and the puzzled girl.

"I haven't done anything, Dudley. Just talking, is all."

A fire was lit in the larger boy's eyes. A kind of malice that had Harry warily twitching as nervousness overtook his previous confidence. "Talking? To you, freak? Why would anyone want to talk to _you_? Unless -" Harry really didn't like the glint in Dudley's eye "- is she a freak too?"

Harry sucked in a breath, anger welling up inside him, slowly replacing the nerves. "No! Leave her alone."

Dudley laughed triumphantly. "She is, isn't she! You've found yourself a freaky girlfriend, have you Potter!?"

Harry gritted his teeth, his whole body growing tense. "Leave her alone, Dudley!"

"You know what? I don't think I will! I know! Let's all play _Harry Hunting_ together! She can be on _your_ team," he added darkly.

Harry went white at that. Lisa was going to be his _friend,_ and good friends don't let their friends get hurt. "Leave her alone," he whispered harshly, his entire frame shaking now.

Dudley laughed at him. "Look! Little baby Potter's shaking in fear! You should be! How dare you tell me what to do! I'll just have to teach you a lesson! And then I'll teach her one too."

Harry's eyes snapped open wide, alight with a strange green fire, and before Dudley could make a move, he was flung backward with incredible force, knocking him off his feet while Harry's enraged scowl froze... and then transformed into fearful shock. He'd done it again.

"H-Harry?"

Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, but he didn't dare look at Lisa.

The silence could only be described as deafening. His breaths, hoarse and frantic, were _so loud_ , but not loud enough to drown out the rapid beating of his heart, nor the shallow whimpers emerging from the girl in front of him.

"What _are_ you?"

Finally, he gathered the courage to look up at her, but he wished he hadn't. It was written all over her face – her pale cheeks, quivering lips, glistening eyes – pure, unadulterated fear.

"Lisa, I-"

She _flinched_ and stepped back in terror. And Harry ran, not daring too look back again.

He didn't know how far he ran, but he kept running, and running, and running, until his feet couldn't carry him anymore. That's when he collapsed on the grass, sobbing.

Why? Why did he have to be such a _freak?_ He'd almost done it – he'd almost made a friend, but then stupid Dudley had to stick his stupid face in it, and then he got all freaky and ruined it!

She was afraid of him! _Afraid!_ He didn't mean to do it, he never meant to do any of it, but it kept happening – the breaking glass, hair growing back at record speed, chairs tipping over, water boiling one minute and freezing the next – why? Why did it only ever happen to _him_? Why was it only him that wasn't allowed any friends?

He didn't understand. What did Dudley, Petunia, and Vernon know about him that he didn't? Why was he different? Why wouldn't they tell him? There was clearly something wrong with him, but no one ever told him what it was. They told him he was a _freak_ , but they never told him how to fix it. He _wanted_ to fix it, he wanted it so bad. Why couldn't he be normal? Why wasn't he allowed to be like everyone else? It wasn't fair! Why wasn't anything ever fair?

: _Are you dying?:_

Harry froze, his thoughts freezing with him, before lifting his head and looking around. There was no one there. : _Great, now I'm hearing voices too!:_

; _Of course you're hearing voices, I'm talking to you!:_

Harry blinked and his eyes travelled in the direction of the strange hissing sound, coming to rest on the form of a tiny green snake staring up at him with wide black eyes.

Harry gaped. The snake was _talking_. Snakes can't talk! They only talked in his dreams, to Tom...

: _Hey, are you dead now?:_

Harry's expression of shock was replaced by a scowl. : _I'm not_ dead.:

The snake made a strange sound, which, coming from a human, would have sounded rather indignant. _:Well how am I supposed to know that?:_

Harry frowned. The snake had a point. He didn't know where he was, he felt like his legs were going to fall off, and his head felt like it was filled with sand. And then he was talking to a snake. Like he did in his dreams. : _I..._ am _I dead?:_

: _That's what I'm asking you!:_

: _I don't think I'm dead. I just...snakes aren't suppose to talk.:_

: _Of course we talk! It's you pink two-legged creatures that can't speak.:_

Harry really had no response to that.

: _So if you weren't dying, what were those sounds you were making?:_

Harry stared at his hands, ashamed. : _I...I was crying.:_

: _Crying?:_

: _Yeah, it's what humans do when they're sad.:_

: _Why were you sad?:_

: _I...I'm all alone. I tried to make a friend, but I scared her away.:_

: _You're sad because you don't have any friends?:_

Harry nodded.

: _I'll be your friend.:_

Harry's eyes widened, his back straightening as he frantically wiped the tears from his face. : _Really?:_

The snake bobbed its head up and down. : _Sure. I don't have anything better to do.:_

Harry choked out a laugh, a near-hysterical smile taking over his features.

: _I'm Khasa. What's your name?:_

: _Harry, Harry Potter.:_

: _Well, Harry, Harry Potter, I believe this is the start of a beautiful friendship.:_

Harry smiled – a genuine smile of pure joy. It was the first time he'd felt it - the warmth, the gratitude...the happiness of not being alone any longer. : _I think you might be absolutely right, Khasa.:_

Meanwhile, far away from the joy and innocent triumph of the making of a first friendship, something dark and cold bubbled to life, a conscious awareness stirring in the deep, undiscovered reaches of Harry Potter's mind.

 _Harry Potter?_

A strange swirl of hatred, anger, and shock erupted at the name, and the consciousness trembled in the darkness, threatening to unleash a torrent of foreign pain on the unsuspecting boy. But then all was still.

 _Harry Potter_

 _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..._

 _Harry Potter_

Anger was replaced by amusement, fury by a cold, calculating quiet.

 _Harry Potter_

Yes, he could work with that.

* * *

And thus it begins. Anyway, leave me a note! I always want to hear what my readers think :)


	2. Transience

**Disclaimer:** It's here.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Transience**

Snakes, Harry soon learned, were transient creatures. Khasa hadn't stuck around long, and neither had his successor, Xelos. They stayed with him about half a year each, and during that time, Harry had become quite fond of them - more fond than he'd ever been of any human being. Snakes were much better people than actual people, he had quickly decided; it was no coincidence that the language of serpents had no word for 'freak'. They had other unsavoury words for sure, but the absence of that one word was enough to make Harry believe that, in general, snakes were far superior in moral quality than human beings. They understood little of the cares and troubles of the human world, and Harry found that he preferred that - spending time with the little creatures provided an escape from the drear ordeal that was his life. They showed him kindness no human ever had, and accepted him without judgement, and with an innocence he was sure humans weren't capable of. He enjoyed their company more than anything - there was nothing that made him happier than chatting with them cheerily while he knelt over Aunt Petunia's garden, pulling weeds, and listening to their skillful narrations when he sat on the grass eating his lunch. Snakes had the best stories to tell; Khasa in particular had quite the silver tongue.

: _It had been snowing heavily since three days prior and the winds had come in naught more than ghostly wisps, doing little more than whispering sweet nothings to no one. It was truly beautiful._

: _But that's not the point, is it? For despite the tranquility of the forest of fathomless trees, my foe, that persistent viper, stood in my way. He was larger, faster, and to the outside observer, it would have seemed I had no chance to win. Defeat was imminent. But the outside observer would not know that I was, in fact, far cleverer than he. For you see, I had not only noticed the abundance of snow and absence of wind, but also deduced the strategic advantage the weather had made available to me. It took little more than the tap of my tail on the trunk of a young yew tree to send a great torrent of snow from its place on the tree top to the ground where my foe stood, waiting to strike. The snow engulfed him quickly, giving me the chance to slither away unharmed. So you see, Harry never be strong when you can be clever.:_

It turned out snakes live quite exciting lives, what with their hunting small rodents and fleeing from birds of prey, not to mention fighting with other snakes. But Khasa and Xelos were young, and by the time a few months had passed, their collection of stories ran dry. It was then that Harry noticed their sluggish movements, and their volatile mood swings; as time wore on they became more distracted, distant. In the end, it became evident that they couldn't stay with him – it wasn't right for them, lingering in one place so long; they needed to move on, and Harry needed to stay, trapped during the day in Classroom 5a, and during the night in the cupboard under the stairs of Number 4 Privet Drive.

He wouldn't deny it – when Khasa first left, he was heartbroken. He had never felt anything like the pain of losing a friend before, and he was not prepared for it at all. But he was a better person for it, or so he told himself. He was one step closer to being a real person, not a mere freak, for he now knew of the pain that seemed to haunt all _normal_ people. It wasn't the fear of being hunted, nor the weight of the knowledge that he would never amount to more than being a worthless freak – it was the pain of loss, a universal ailment of the human race.

Grief had always confused him – he didn't really understand the concept. Often, his mind would wander to the stricken faces of the characters of Aunt Petunia's soap operas – he would commit the raw emotion on their faces to memory, and after his chores were finished and he was finally allowed to return to his cupboard, he would return to these memories, revelling in the unfamiliar sentiments those skilled actors portrayed. Harry was familiar with pain. Intimately familiar, he'd dare say, but there was more to it than that. There was something deeper in the expressions of the blonde man and woman on the telly, as they mourned their four year old daughter – they knew something that he didn't.

Harry knew loneliness, too; the pain of absence. And yet, the grim faces of the funeral attendees held something more. There was something important he was missing, some shared human experience common enough that professional actors could capture it on the television screen, but profound enough that the full implications of it eluded Harry constantly.

But he finally understood. The departure of Khasa left a gaping hole deep in Harry's chest – a dull ache and a sharp feeling of dread – the realization that he had had something wonderful, and would never have it again. Khasa was not coming back.

Xelos's arrival filled the hole, but not entirely. It was just _different._ Xelos's presence cured the illness that was loneliness, but his presence didn't erase the grief. It was then that Harry came to understand that friends could not be replaced, a lesson that he would surely take to heart.

* * *

: _Cici! Cici! Stop hiding! I want to talk to you!:_

Again, there was no reply.

He had done this every night for the last week – wandering in circles around the yard, calling Cici's name in soft hisses only she could hear. Seven nights she had eluded him; seven nights Tom had failed to locate his only friend. He _would_ find her - that's what he told himself, at first, but deep down in in his recently thawed heart, he knew the truth. She was gone.

The boy sunk to his knees in the cold grass, heart pounding audibly in his chest. Either she was hiding from him, or she had left. Either way, Cici was no longer his friend. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he gasped - but the moment passed quickly and his face grew cold and hard like stone; he refused to cry. That's what the other children would do – that's what stupid Billy Stubbs would do – and he was better than them. So much better.

But if he was better, why couldn't he hold onto his only friend? Cici had left, no doubt to become someone else's friend, leaving him behind - how dare she toss him aside like that? If he was so much better, what reason could she possibly have to leave him?

He refused to believe that there was something wrong with _him._ He refused to believe that he had been deprived of something he needed due to his own deficiencies. He refused to believe that he had failed in any way - but then why did Cici leave? There was only one answer. She left because he didn't need her. He didn't need friends. Cici knew this, and comforted by this knowledge, she had the audacity to leave. She knew Tom was superior enough that he didn't need to lean on friendship like a crutch, leeching off of others to cover up his own deficiencies.

He closed his eyes, allowing the midnight cold to wash over him and hold him tightly; he took a deep breath and then he _felt_. It was the way the cold nipped at his skin, the whispering of the autumn breeze; the taste of gathering dew and the smell of a rainstorm approaching – this was his world. Like the natural phenomena surrounding him, he was a force unimpeded by human frailty, untroubled by the cares of the miserable little people crawling about and _corrupting_. He was above all that – he was free.

And even as a frigid smile formed upon his face, a single tear fell from his eyes – the last tear that would ever escape his cold, dark eyes.

If Cici ever returned, he would kill her. Then she'd never leave again.

Harry woke up crying.

* * *

After the initial shock of Khasa and Xenos's respective departures had faded into the greyish blur that was Harry's past, he was resolved to find himself another friend – a human friend, this time. They, at the very least, tended to stay in one place. It had been an entire year since he had attempted to befriend Lisa, and the pain of rejection was little more than a faded memory, and the lesson learned had become a lesson forgotten.

It was worth the risk, he told himself. Human friends were stationary, and, well, human. It was rather pathetic, he knew, that he was eight years old and the only friends he'd ever had were adolescent reptiles. Even Harry, as socially isolated as he was, knew that friend-making was a sort of human rite-of-passage. If he ever wanted to amount to anything more than a freak, he needed a human friend.

This was no easy goal he'd set for himself; all the children in his school were either afraid of him or too afraid of Dudley to befriend him. Not to mention, he'd spent enough time with them to know that none of them were really ideal friend material. Most children were unkind and silly, with little or no redeeming qualities. But, as it turned out, the start of third grade provided the perfect opportunity: the new kid, Sam Stewart – the magician. Samuel the Spectacular, he called himself.

He was tall for his age, a sandy blonde with rosy cheeks and a mischievous smile. The boy often wore a top hat to class, and delighted in pulling strange objects out of it with a triumphant 'Abra Cadabra!'

Harry always winced when the boy said that. He wasn't quite sure why.

Despite this, Harry knew a perfect opportunity had presented itself. Sam would have a hard time making close friends, Harry predicted. Sure, the other children would be intrigued by the tricks he was so skilled at, but they'd keep their distance all the same. The boy was too loud, too happy, and too lost in his own little world to quickly endear himself too deeply to any of his predictably boring classmates.

That was why, after class had ended on September 27th, 1988, Harry slowly (and rather stealthily, he thought), made his way over to Sam's desk.

"I think it was pretty neat, how you pulled that rabbit out of your hat," Harry greeted without prelude.

The boy looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise at first, before his face morphed into a grin. "You did, did you? That was one of my cleverer ideas, I think. I can't believe Miss Jenkins took it away from me! It was a rather pathetic creature you know, it's not like it'd hurt anyone."

Harry nodded in agreement, and Sam seemed to take this as encouragement to continue talking.

"I'm having trouble coming up with a new idea, though. You see, I started with card tricks, and then moved on to vanishing coins. The natural progression, of course, was pulling ribbons out of the hat next, but I think I jumped the gun with the rabbit, a bit."

"Err..."

"I mean, how do you top that?"

Harry was pretty sure it was meant as a rhetorical question, but he wondered about it nonetheless – how _do_ you top pulling a rabbit out of a hat?

Meanwhile, Sam tugged at his long blonde hair as he frantically continued to chatter on.

 _Oh, he's still talking._

"I won't be able to think about anything else for ages..."

The boy kept talking, but Harry stopped listening; an idea had come to him – it was risky, but it might very well be worth the risk, he thought. Sam didn't seem like the suspicious type, so as long as he did as Harry asked, everything would be fine. Yes, there really wasn't any particular reason not to go along with this newly hatched plan. After all, he didn't really have anything to lose. "I think I can help you with that."

Sam's tirade stuttered to a stop. "What?"

"I think I can help you come up with a new idea. Something better to pull out of your hat."

Sam stared at him with wide eyes. "Really? You think so?"

Harry nodded. "I have an idea."

"What is it?"

Harry allowed a small grin to form on his face. This was his chance, to be of value to someone. Everything would be fine, he told himself, he'd get it right. "It's a surprise."

Sam pouted, and opened his mouth to complain, but Harry interrupted him.

"Meet me behind the big bush in the playground at precisely 8:23 in the morning tomorrow."

Sam blinked. "Uhh...why 8:23?"

"23 is a good number," Harry said awkwardly. It was true – Dudley had never beat him up on the 23rd of any month before.

Sam recovered quickly. "Alright then! Let's shake on it."

Harry grasped the vivacious boy's hand. He'd done it. He'd implemented the first stage of his plan. If he didn't mess this up, by tomorrow afternoon he'd have a new friend.

* * *

As it turned out, everything _did_ go according to plan. Harry had managed to convince one of the friendlier snakes that lived behind the school to aid Sam in his little magic trick - it had taken a little bit of begging, but the end, the youngest serpent, Chi, had agreed.

Sam, of course, was thrilled when Harry presented him with his gift, and quickly and easily agreed that Harry was indeed a good friend. The plan was a success.


	3. Vicarious

**Disclaimer:** consider this chapter disclaimed.

* * *

 **Chapter 3:** Vicarious

A malicious light glinted in Tom's eye as he approached the small cupboard in Billy Stubbs's room. He coughed a bit, as he lifted the perpetually dusty lid, retrieving a small box and dumping the contents on the ground. The boy didn't have much - none of the children at Wool's Orphanage did - but Tom happened to be aware that Billy had a secret hobby; collecting marbles. Billy wasn't a complete imbecile - he never said anything about his little collection, well aware that the other children would want to play with them, and that they would, eventually, be lost or stolen. But Tom wasn't fooled by his silence. Tom knew about the marbles, and he knew _exactly_ where to look for them.

Now, Billy hadn't done anything to him, this time. No, Tom was not doling out any sort of punishment or revenge; he had an experiment to conduct. Since success would mean being divested of his test subject, he wasn't about to use one of his own meager possessions (nor the steadily growing collection of trophies he had acquired over the last few years); indeed, it was either Billy's marbles or Jane's sweets stash. Tom had flipped a coin - heads for marbles, tails for candy - which had landed heads-up. Now it was a question of which marble to take...the red one? The blue one? Maybe the green one. Yes, he was in a rather green sort of mood. Green it was.

For a moment he paused, and stared at the little glass ball on the floor, watching it sparkle ever so slightly in the sunlight leaking through the musty window behind him. This little ball of glass was the only thing standing between him and the most profound of victories.

His fingers were shaking with excitement when he picked his chosen marble up, and as he closed his eyes, his whole body quivered in anticipation. He had been practicing for days now, with varying degrees of success, on pieces of grass and dead insects; but finally, this time, he knew he had it. The marble would be an appropriate challenge - it would be his most impressive feat yet. The very thought had him mad with the thrill of it all.

But he had to relax - this would only work if he focused, if he breathed soft and slow. He could do this. And if he could do this...he could do anything.

 _Go away._

 _Go._

 _Go._

 _GO!_

The feeling of hot water washing over his skin embraced him suddenly, and he felt a rush of static dancing across his skin. He could hear his heart thrumming in his ears, punctuating the electric pulses emanating from somewhere deep inside him. But it was only for a moment, and then all was still again.

He blinked, and stared down at his empty hands. A gleeful laugh bubbled up in his throat. He'd done it! _On purpose_.

Tom knew he was strange, he knew he was special – he knew that he could do things no one else could do. He'd always known that, deep down, but now he had proof – undeniable proof. He'd never doubt himself again.

Harry'd had that dream four times now - it was one of his favourites. Every time he woke from it, the indomitable sensation of pride and triumph gripped him tightly, and for a few moments, at least, he felt like he could do anything. For a few moments after waking, he knew the truth - he had the power to be free. Tom was brilliant, Harry had decided. Whatever his faults, the boy had in him the drive and confidence to accomplish anything he put his mind to. Tom would be a great man, one day, he thought. And whenever he had that dream, Harry awoke wanting to be great as well.

By the time the fourth occurrence of this dream rolled around, he was determined to learn this skill for himself. Every smidgen of common sense in him told him it was impossible. _Things don't just disappear_ , he told himself. He had heard the same story many times, uttered by his relatives like a mantra,

"There's no such thing as magic!"

But he could not help but wonder...if he could talk to snakes, just like Tom did, could he perhaps make toys disappear too?

Yes, he decided. Yes he could. It didn't matter how impossible it seemed - he _would_ believe in himself, and he _would_ do it. If Tom did it, he could too.

It wasn't easy, that was for sure. For months, he sat silently in his dark cupboard at night, holding his least favourite toy soldier in his hands, which were, like Tom's had been, sweating and shaking in anticipation. Unlike Tom, though, he couldn't quite get the relaxation thing down. He'd sit there on his cot for an hour, sometimes two, just willing the toy to vanish.

 _Go away._

 _Go._

 _Go._

 _GO!_

But it was to no avail. For months, he went to bed with failure weighing down his tired limbs. In a way, it was infuriating. How _does_ one go about willing a toy to disappear? There was no science to it, no explanation - either it worked or it didn't. Truth be told, while he wasn't about to give up, he didn't even know where to start. That is, until he had the dream a fifth time. Then everything changed.

As soon as he woke, he knew what he had to do: he needed to _feel_ it – he needed to feel what Tom felt. _Exactly_ what Tom felt. That was the key - not just willing the toy to disappear, but also feeling every minute detail of the object in his hands, so that he could fully understand its absence. It was the feeling he needed.

So he let himself fall back into the dream. Where was he? Billy Stubbs's room. What was he doing? Proving once and for all that he was superior to the other children. Why was he doing it? He _had_ to do it. He had no choice. He had to do this. He let himself get lost in the desperation, the anger, the frustration; he drenched his consciousness in the surreal intoxication of the knowledge that he was destined for something better, something greater. It swelled in his chest, washing over his skin with a cold burn that could be only be described as profound.

And when he opened his eyes, the little toy soldier - Bob, had been his name - was gone.

Harry covered his mouth to muffle a shout of joy. It was just like magic! No, he shook his head. It _was_ magic. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were wrong. So, so wrong. Magic _was_ real – he'd just proven it. He'd proven it beyond any shadow of a doubt - magic was real and it was _his._

He couldn't wait to show Sam. After all, Sam loved magic.

* * *

Sam Stewart was Harry's best friend. Well, actually, he was his only friend.

If he was being completely honest with himself, Harry thought the boy was a little annoying – he talked _so much_. Seriously, he never stopped talking. Harry hadn't known people talked that much. He didn't think they were capable of it, until he met Sam. It was probably for the best though, Harry supposed, because in the end he could just let Sam do all the talking, and bask in the welcoming warmth that was friendship.

Despite his faults - which, Harry always reminded himself, were quite minor - Sam really was a good person. It hadn't taken Dudley long to figure out that Harry had made a new friend, and had made it his mission to warn Sam of the truth; that he was being deceived by a freak, and if he was smart, he would run as far away from the aberration that was Harry Potter as possible.

But Sam didn't run. He defended Harry with a smile. Sam never looked on idly when Dudley and his friends picked on Harry; indeed, he seemed to find considerable satisfaction in standing up to Dudley and his gang of distasteful bullies. The bold magician-in-training always called them out on it, and when necessary, took Harry's hand and they ran. Together.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt like a real boy, living a real life, with a real friend - with a real future in front of him. He was more than 'boy' or 'freak' - he was Harry Potter, Sam Stewart's best friend.

That's what Sam called him. His _best_ friend.

Sam told Harry everything. He told him about every trick he worked on, about how much he hated his homework and how one day he'd drop out of school and become a travelling magician. He told Harry about his annoying older sister who thought she was so important because she was in their church choir, and his funny baby brother; he even told Harry about when his parents yelled at each other and talked about something called 'divorce'. Harry was deeply flattered and encouraged by the trust Sam placed in him, but the confidence Sam's trust gave him was always overshadowed by the fact that he felt terrible about how little he trusted Sam. It wasn't as though he _distrusted_ the blonde boy...he just didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to tell Sam that he lived in a cupboard under the stairs, or that for a long time, he thought his name was _freak._ He didn't know how to explain to Sam that every night, he dreamed of another orphan boy named Tom Riddle. He certainly didn't know how to tell Sam that he could talk to snakes, or that he could do _magic_. But that wasn't going to stop him from trying.

"Sam! Sam! I have something to show you!"

Sam turned around and grinned at him. He, like everyone else, was imbued with energy wrought from the fact that this was the last day they had to spend locked in a classroom, until the new year; it was the last day of school before Christmas holidays. Harry and Sam had already made many plans for the holidays - they were going to make snowmen together, go to the library together, and practice magic tricks together. Sam's parent's had even invited Harry to church with them. Harry wasn't sure what one does at church - he'd been to the building a few times, but he'd never been to an actual _church service_ \- but Sam seemed to think it was important, which was enough for him. Yes, this holiday would be filled with exciting new discoveries, and, for the first time in his life, _presents._

He wasn't sure what he was going to give Sam, what with his limited funds, but today would be a good start - he was going to give Sam the truth.

"Do you have an idea for a new trick?"

Harry shook his head excitedly, trying not to fidget too much. Sam didn't need to know how nervous he was. "I can't tell you here - it's a secret! You wanna see?"

As Harry expected, Sam nodded avidly. "Well then! Let's see it."

Harry grabbed his hand and sprinted forward, leading his friend toward a small grove of secluded trees not far from the playground, where they often ate their lunches together. A few months ago, Harry would have never thought to take someone by the hand and lead them anywhere (he'd be much to afraid to get smacked for it), but he knew Sam didn't mind; the blonde boy just continued chattering happily behind him.

Once they reached the trees, Harry tugged off his mittens and pulled a small ten pence coin out of his pocket, placing it in the palm of his right hand.

Sam had stopped talking, and was staring at him curiously. "Are you going to make it disappear, Harry? Because I already taught you that one, remember? Child's play!"

Harry smiled. "Just wait, this is different...watch carefully."

Seeing Sam nod, Harry closed his eyes, recalling the dream he'd had five times before now. He could do this – he just needed to remember – remember the focus and determination, remember the joy, remember the _power. Remember, Harry, remember._

And then it happened – that familiar warmth overcame him, dancing across his skin in the most tantalizing of ways.

 _Magic..._

There was really nothing more beautiful.

When the subsequent pleasured shiver went down his spine, he knew he had succeeded, and sure enough, when Harry opened his eyes, the coin was gone.

"...Harry...?"

Harry looked up at his friend, expecting to see the same wonder and thrill he was reveling in - he expected to see marvel in his friend's eyes. Instead, he saw that familiar expression. Fear.

"H-how did you do that?"

Harry smiled weakly. Maybe Sam just needed a moment to process. After all, the first time he'd seen Tom do magic, he had been nothing less than floored. It had taken him a while to convince himself Tom hadn't just been hallucinating (after all, he was kind of crazy like that). "It's magic, Sam. Real magic."

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. "You can do...real magic?"

Harry nodded hopefully.

"You mean, what the other kids say...about you breaking the windows when you were mad..."

"Well, yes, but-"

"And throwing your cousin across the playground just by glaring at him -"

"Well, he was being a-"

"The things they tried to warn me about...the things you said weren't true...they all really happened?"

Harry froze, not sure what to say. He could lie, yes, but it wouldn't be very convincing, not after what he'd just shown Sam. A simple "yes" was all that slipped out.

Sam took a step back. "You can break thing without touching them? You can hurt people without even moving? You can _make things disappear_!?"

"Yes!" Harry cried. He did his very best to stifle the anxiety growing steadily inside of him. This was not going to plan at all...he was quickly losing control of the situation. He needed to make Sam understand...he needed to make his friend understand that he didn't mean any harm. "Yes, I can, but I don't mean it, any of it! It just happens! I don't mean it!"

"You meant to make that coin disappear – you could make any of us disappear!"

Harry gasped. "I wouldn't do that!"

"And how do I know that! How do I know you won't hurt me, like you hurt those other kids!?"

Harry bit back a sob, as he reeled in shock. How could Sam even think that? Harry had never done anything to him - how could he think he would hurt him? Had Harry done something to make Sam think he was a bad person? Suddenly very ashamed, he stared at his feet. "Because I'm your friend." He said the words earnestly, imbuing them with raw sorrow and guilt. Surely Sam would understand how sorry he was.

But much to Harry's surprise, Sam scoffed at that. It was a weak, unsteady scoff, but a sound of mocking nonetheless. "No you're not. You're a liar, Harry Potter, and they're right."

Dread bubbled up inside him, and Harry let out a small whimper, unable to remain entirely silent.

"They're right. You really _are_ a freak."

At that moment, something inside Harry died, and all semblance of thought died with it. He couldn't think, he couldn't process, all he could do was feel.

And he felt horrible.

Unbidden, a cold wind swirled around him, stirring the snow from the ground like a tiny blizzard. Sam let out a screech before being tossed backward, blinded by the torrent of wind and snow between him and Harry.

Harry could hear Sam's shouts - "Stop! Stop! Please stop!" - but all he could do was sob into his hands. Why? Why? Why did this always happen to him?

A moment later, everything fell silent. The wind died, and the snow slowly drifted to the ground, strangely serene.

Sam didn't say anything. Neither did Harry. And as the blonde boy scrambled to his feet and ran, Harry knew they'd never speak again.

* * *

"So you finally scared him off, did you, freak?"

"Leave me alone Dudley."

He heard cruel snickering behind him.

"Did you hear that? The freak wants us to leave him alone."

"Poor little Harry Potter - aren't you going to run?"

"You should be more careful how you talk to us, freak. Stewart isn't here to protect you anymore."

"Stop it...please."

"Please, he says," Dudley mocked mercilessly, "Don't tell us what to do, freak!"

Harry was too tired to run away. He was too resigned to fight back. He was too hurt to care when the punches started flying.

 _This again._

He didn't make a noise, he didn't move as fists pounded on his face and his ribs, over, and over, and over again, each strike forcing a hoarse breath from his lungs. He didn't know when he ended up on the ground; when the punches turned into kicks. It hurt. It hurt so bad. But he was powerless to stop them, just as he always was. He couldn't do anything - he didn't _want_ to do anything. He wished it would just end. He wished he wouldn't have to wake up the next morning, friendless and covered in bruises. It wasn't worth it; he felt a wave of nausea wash over him with the nostalgic realization. It never got better, nothing ever got better. He coughed out a sob as another kick connected with his shoulder. If they kept this up long enough, would they kill him? Would they know when to stop? Maybe not. And maybe it was better that way, he thought, even as intense fear gripped him. Perhaps Harry Potter was finally going to meet his end – perhaps he never belonged, perhaps he was never meant to be alive, and this was just fate. The thought was both terrifying and comforting at the same time, and if he was being entirely honest with himself, at that very moment it seemed to him that dying might not being so bad.

 _Maybe I deserve to die_. _Maybe I should never have been born_.

But just as that thought crossed his mind, something changed. Something went very, very wrong.

A crippling pain erupted from his forehead, and as his body seized, he could not stop a horrifying shriek from ripping through his throat. He couldn't think, he couldn't move; he was drowning, his mind far away as screams clawed at his throat and blood dripped from his forehead onto the snow covered ground.

Then it stopped suddenly. Everything stopped. The pain in his head, the screams, the kicks – everything stopped.

And then Harry experienced something he'd never experienced before. Whilst Dudley and his friends stared on in shock, no doubt unsettled by his screams, he felt his body moving on its own, muscles straining as he slowly rose to his feet, despite the pain emanating from every joint, every muscle, and every tendon in his body. He felt the pain and the cold, but it was not him who was doing the feeling; he was far away from his own skin. He was nothing more than a puppet. A bruised, bleeding puppet.

He was not prepared for what happened next; he laughed. The puppet master was obviously oblivious to the pain, not hesitating in the slightest as he he doubled over in laughter, his whole frame shaking with mirth. But it wasn't a happy laugh, it wasn't cheerful – it wasn't Harry's laugh. It was a cold, high, mocking sound, filled to the brim with malicious glee. Then it stopped, and all was silent again.

"You vile, filthy little muggles."

The voice was his - he'd heard it many times before - and yet it was not. There was something hard and icy in this voice, which was but a semblance of Harry's childish soprano, frozen and frigid in the most unpleasant of ways.

"You dare harm this child, this child in whose veins flows the most potent of magics? You – who are nothing more than insects – dare to even touch this child, whose blood is sacred, the purest elixir compared to the disgusting sludge that gives your pathetic forms life?"

He felt his body straighten, his stance proud and tall. "You have committed a crime against nature, and for that crime you must be punished."

Something shifted inside Harry, and something ugly twisted deep inside his chest, an evil feeling he'd never had before. Unbidden, cruel glee burst forth from inside him and he could do nothing but stare on in shock as Dudley and his three friends writhed on the ground, silent screams pouring forth from their lips, as he bilssfully soaked in the power pulsing in the air around him, prickling his skin like static. He felt pleasure. And he hated it.

He didn't know how long he watched his tormentors tormented, but after what seemed like hours, it all stopped, and the street, along with his mind, fell silent once again.

Harry was scared – he was terrified. He had never been more afraid. He was sure that were he in control of his body, he would be on the ground sobbing and struggling to breath. What was happening to him?

Pain seized him again as his body moved once more of its own accord, stepping over the prone and quivering form of Dudley Dursley and kneeling before him.

The last thing Harry heard was the word _"Obliviate."_

* * *

When Harry awoke, it was dark. Dark and silent.

At first he didn't know where he was, but then he noticed the familiar scratchiness of the fabric below him, and the musty smell he had long since grown used to. He was in his cupboard. What had happened? How did he end up there? The last thing he remembered was...

He grimaced. That...that could not have been real. Magic was fine, he could believe in vanishing coins and invisible pushes and pulls. But the memories that were slowly seeping into his awareness...he felt as if he had been possessed. By the devil.

His whole body protested as he sat up. The pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, but, miraculously, he didn't think anything was broken.

He felt like his body was going to fall apart as he trudged up the stairs as quietly as possible, determined to at the very least wipe the dried blood off his face. He hated the feeling of dry blood. It was sticky, and it smelled vile, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep until his face was clean.

The smallest semblance of victory crept into his tired mind as he finally found his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him with a quiet click. He turned on the tap only slightly and wet his hands before rubbing his face, doing his best to ignore the pain. He should probably disinfect the cuts too, he thought to himself. They were probably pretty deep. He sighed. He tended to heal very quickly, but they would still probably take forever to heal, and his face probably looked awful. He really didn't want to see it, but steeling himself, he looked up at the mirror, almost recoiling at the sight of all the crimson painting his face, not to mention the nasty bruise that had formed on his chin and over his left eye.

He was about to reach for the soap and begin what would no doubt be a painful and arduous disinfecting process when he froze. Something was not right. Unease filled his already sore chest, and he felt his hairs standing on end. He felt afraid. Why? What was going on? But suddenly it made sense; for when he looked more closely at his face in the mirror, but he saw, instead of the vivacious green eyes he had grown used to, two crimson orbs staring back at him.

"Harry Potter," the boy in the mirror said softly.

He stepped back in shock, almost falling over. He took a deep breath. "I must have hit my head harder than I thought," he said, smiling weakly in the mirror.

His reflection did not return the sentiment.

"You are not dreaming Harry Potter, nor is your mind playing tricks on you."

The smile drained from Harry's face, along with any lifelike colour that had graced it a moment ago. "Who...what...?"

Slowly, the figure in the mirror smiled at him. It was a cold smile, betraying not a single emotion. "What, you don't know who I am, Harry?"

Harry stared into his doppelganger's eyes, his mind finally starting to catch up with him. He was in the bathroom...looking in the mirror...but his reflection was nowhere to be seen. Instead, someone else was staring back at him with his own face. Someone who knew him. Someone with a cold smile that seemed to grow at the sight of Harry's fear and confusion. This...person...knew him. Not many people knew Harry - not many people who might manage to find themselves inside a bathroom mirror. It was almost like...magic.

 _Magic..._

Then it was obvious - this could only be one person.

"Tom Riddle."

The boy in the mirror grinned at him. "My, you are a clever boy, aren't you?"

Harry's breaths were shallow. "How can you be here? You're just a dream..."

"Come now, Harry, I was never just a dream."

It was true. Tom Riddle had always been more to him than a mere dream. Harry knew that...but he'd never really thought about it - if Tom Riddle was more than just a dream, what _was_ he?

"I assure you," the boy continued, "I'm just as real as you are."

Harry took a deep breath and stepped closer to the mirror. "Then...you're really here? How can you be here?"

The other boy's eyes grew wide, a strange light flickering in them as his grin widened. "Magic."

"But...how? You were in my dreams...how did you end up inside my bathroom mirror?"

The other boy shook his head. "Silly boy. I'm not in your mirror."

 _I'm in your head._

Harry's eyes widened.

"I've been watching you Harry Potter, and you've been watching me. I watch you walk and talk in my own skin every night, just as I see what you see, hear what you hear, smell what you smell, taste what you taste, and _feel_ just as you do. We are together, Harry, always. I live vicariously through you, just as in your dreams, you live vicariously through me. Magic has bound us together, and nothing can tear us apart.

"Know this, Harry - you are never alone."

Harry really didn't know how to respond to that.

* * *

Anyway, yeah. Hope you enjoyed. Please review. Seriously, please do. It helps.


	4. Broken

**Disclaimer** : disclaimed

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Broken**

It was the soft, subtle syllables of parseltongue that woke him from his long slumber.

: _...Harry, Harry Potter...:_

That name. He knew that name.

"Not Harry! Please... have mercy... Not Harry! Please - I'll do anything!"

Harry Potter. The boy he had chosen to die. The boy who had, apparently, lived.

It was not long before he understood what had happened. His memory of that night was fragmented, barely coherent at first, but as he watched the world through the eyes of this little child named Harry, it all became clear to him.

Lord Voldemort had been played. Fate had taunted him, and he rose to the challenge, only to be cast down by fate's cousin, Irony. His body had been taken from him by his own curse, and this obliviously innocent child lived while he did not; instead of preventing his defeat, he had incited it. Lord Voldemort had been destroyed, his body broken and his soul shattered – but he was not defeated.

The soul is a curious thing. While his understanding of that elusive concept easily surpassed all who came before him, he would admit that its subtleties were still very much a mystery to him. Who knew one could accidentally create a horcrux? He certainly hadn't.

For that's exactly what he was. He was not the master soul of Lord Voldemort – he was but a sliver, nestled safely in the fractured soul of one six year old Harry Potter. And what a soul it was; never before had he encountered something so anomalous, so unexpected. It was a violation of nature as strange as a horcrux, and it could only have been the work of an exceptionally talented witch or wizard. He had considered briefly the possibility of Dumbledore interfering, tampering with the Potter boy's soul in an attempt to engineer the defeat of Lord Voldemort, but he quickly discarded the theory - for the work of art that was Harry Potter's soul bore a signature that spoke of youth and desperation, the brushstrokes betraying an artist whose soul and magic were already tightly entwined with the boy's. The tampering of Harry Potter's soul was not born of the scheming of an old man - it was engendered by the love of a mother.

Had Lily Potter known? Had she known that her desperate experiment would save her son's life, while turning him into something so...broken? The mudblood may have been born a tainted creature, but there was no denying the potency of her blood and her magic, the ingredients to whatever crafty spell she'd created in her audacious attempt to save her family.

Let no one ever say that Lord Voldemort did not give credit where credit was due; for in that silent prison, the darkest confines of a little child's mind, he had nothing to do but reminisce, analyze, and understand – and he had to admit, of all his foes, Lily Potter had been the most dangerous. She must have been a formidable witch, and he had underestimated her. It was perhaps the greatest mistake he ever made.

It was an easy mistake to make. He had heard of her, in passing - but what he had heard of a brilliant young mudblood who had already published her first academic paper at the tender age of 19 was easily eclipsed by the large shadow cast by her husband, daring auror-in-training, James Potter. No, most of what he knew of the girl came from routine sweeps of Severus's mind. Sweet Lily Evans. Severus thought so highly of her – he thought of her like a saint; a white lily flower untainted by the world. How wrong he was. He wondered if Severus had any idea that his childhood friend was capable of experimenting on her own son's soul in a desperate attempt to save his life.

For that is exactly what she had done. One cannot make just any object into a horcrux – rituals need to be performed, blood sacrifices made – it took time and effort. After all, if it was easy, everyone would do it. Well, perhaps not, but still - there _was_ a reason he was the only wizard to create a horcrux in centuries. His soul might have been fragile, after having created five horcruxes, but there was no possibility that crude magic like the A _vada Kedavra_ curse would have been able to perform the delicate art that was splitting the soul and separating the pieces, and there was no possibility that the body of an infant would emanate enough of a grounding force to anchor one of said pieces without any preparation. No, the boy's soul must have been altered from the beginning, twisted by the rarest of magics. He had come across it as well – whispers of magics even stranger than horcruxes, that could bend the soul, make it soft, hard, pliable, or brittle. Somehow, the the red-headed mudblood had managed it, and the only evidence left behind were the potent tendrils of her magic he'd found sleeping in the crevices between Harry's soul and his.

It was an ancient and forbidden magic – her single-minded dedication to her son was no doubt what fueled the impressive feat of morphing his soul into the dense, mutant entity it now was, and her death was the last seal; her own life, magic, and soul embraced him and anchored him. The result was a massive, bright soul unnaturally fused with the boy's earthly form, fractured by his killing curse, but still mostly intact. It would take time to fully understand the extent of Lily Potter's magic, but for now he could just conjecture, and watch the symptoms unfold, for there would be symptoms. The soul was tied inextricably to both magic and mind, and the mind was interwoven with the body through what was perhaps the most delicate human organ, the brain. And it was so easy to alter the brain, to disastrous effects. He was no fool; he knew that he had sacrificed some mental stability for the insurance his horcruxes provided. But Harry Potter - he would grow and develop with foreign, mutant magic seeping into his mind, distorting his thoughts and polarizing his emotions. He would forever be altered by the combined machinations of both his mother and would-be murderer, and would surely suffer for it.

If only Lily Potter had known what a monster she had created. Perhaps it would have been kinder to let the boy die.

* * *

He had a plan, at first. He would leech off the boy's magic (of which there seemed to be plenty), until he grew strong enough to make contact with the boy, and when the time was right, he would whisper words in little Harry Potter's ears, words that would shape who he'd become – words that would transform him into the perfect vessel for Lord Voldemort.

It shouldn't have been difficult. The boy was innocent – far more innocent than he should have been. He had no sense of self worth, no one to guide him; he was nothing, a scared little boy who was happiest living a life that was not even his. _Tom Riddle._ As much as he despised the little monster he once was, he knew embracing what was left of his younger self was to his advantage – Harry already sympathized with Tom; he already knew that Tom had suffered as he had, but had overcome his suffering. So, as much as it irked him, he would introduce himself as Tom Riddle. And slowly, Tom would mold the impressionable and likely unstable Harry Potter into his own image, carry him on the same journey he himself had traveled, until the boy was virtually indistinguishable from him. That was when he would merge their souls, and take the boy's body and magic for his own. The master soul would no doubt seek him out, and once he'd pieced them all together – Harry Potter, he himself, and Lord Voldemort's master soul – the Dark Lord would be reborn.

* * *

It was maddening, watching the boy take beating after beating, insult after insult. He felt every kick, every punch, every tear rolling down Harry Potter's cheek. For the first time in his life, he experienced, if only indirectly, guilt and shame, and worst of all, the desperate urge to become a better person, to be a _good person._ Never before had he known pain, not like this. The boy was drowning him in sentiment, fear, and chaos.

Damn Lily Potter. The filthy mudblood was probably laughing in her grave.

* * *

Lord Voldemort had grown restless. Anxiety crept at the edges of his mind, as he continued to reassure himself. He would not fail. Everything was in place. His future was secure. He just had to wait.

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem..._

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem..._

* * *

Harry Potter...the boy continued to surprise him. He was earnest, yet devious. Frank, yet tactful. Bold, yet careful. He was kind and honest and... _virtuous_.

And yet his magic...it was malicious. Most magical children suffer from sudden bouts of accidental magic. Most of his magic, of course, hadn't been accidental to begin with, but he'd heard many tales at Hogwarts, of clothes changing colour, objects taking flight, or toys moving on their own. From what he had gathered, accidental magic was playful and innocent, a happy trademark of every witch and wizard's childhood. But Harry Potter's magic...it was different. It was strong and unpredictable; it rose up from inside of him like a tempest, warring for release with a desperation he had never before attributed to magic - but most significantly, it rarely showed itself except to cause harm...usually against the boy's wishes.

His first thought was that it was not the boy's magic that was causing problems - it was his. But by the time he watched the child set his Uncle's shoes on fire for the fifth time, it was clear to him that it was not Lord Voldemort's dark magic that was leaking so crudely from the boy; it was the boy's uncorrupted light magic, raw power with a mind of its own that was begging to be used.

Did such a thing even exist? Magic that was evil and pure at the same time. It boded well for him, he supposed - it was no doubt a precursor to what would be an unstable and tumultuous state of being for the impressionable boy, which would make him all the more vulnerable.

And yet...

There was something wrong, something terribly wrong. There was something missing. The child was an anomaly, but he wasn't quite sure why. Not yet. There was so much he did not know. So much could go wrong. He needed to know. He needed to understand.

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem..._

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem..._

* * *

Harry Potter loved thunderstorms - that much had been made clear to Lord Voldemort. The child would lie awake for hours when the weather took a turn for the worst, mesmerized by the rushing sound of the rain and the rhythmic pounding of the heavens, while he wondered what greater power caused the sky to cry and the clouds to light up with white fire. He was not able to listen in on the boy's thoughts, but more often or not, said thoughts would be made tangible as he narrated them meticulously to the spiders that spun their webs on the ceiling of his meagre living quarters, or the plastic toy soldiers that sat on his shelves.

Little did the child know, it was his magic that caused the sky to cry. Whenever too much power built up in little Harry Potter's oversized magical core, it would dissipate into the air and stir up the makings of a storm. It was truly remarkable to watch. And to think, one day that power would be his...

Not much longer. Harry Potter would be his soon. He _needed_ him. He needed to know.

Harry Potter was his puzzle to solve. And he wouldn't let anyone even get close until he'd managed to learn everything there was to know about Harry Potter. He just needed patience. Just patience.

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem..._

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem..._

* * *

It was almost time. He had managed to amass more than enough magic, and soon he would speak to Harry Potter for the first time. Glee bubbled up and danced in his mind. It was almost time! Sweet, innocent Harry Potter was almost within his grasp.

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem..._

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem..._

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem...Harry Potter_

Harry Potter, a strange, twisted creature with a pure, white, gleaming soul.

Yes, things were going according to plan – but of course they were. Lord Voldemort's plans never failed.

Harry Potter was almost his.

He would break him, stain him, corrupt him, and any innocence left in the ruins would belong to him, a pretty little trophy for him to admire. His masterpiece.

Yes, Harry Potter would break. He would lose everything.

But Lord Voldemort had already broken. And he had already lost.

 _Diary...Ring...Locket...Cup...Diadem...Harry Potter..._

* * *

Thought I'd just throw that in before the weekend. These little blurbs from Voldemort's POV will show up a few times early on...it does kill the pacing a bit, but it also is a nice excuse for me to do some exposition in a less boring way.

Thanks for reading, and please review.


	5. Birthright

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of value.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Birthright**

Harry looked proudly up at the corner shop clerk, a bleached blonde with thick black eyeliner accenting her eyes, and an eyebrow piercing to complete the look. 'Jenny', according to the nametag pinned to her shirt.

"Did you find everything you needed?" she drawled disinterestedly.

Harry nodded his head eagerly. "I did ma'am, thank you for asking."

The girl cocked an eyebrow, clearly suspicious of Harry's good manners. Good manners were a habit Harry consciously maintained, a fact that he was quite proud of. Not only was it one less thing for the Dursleys to yell at him for, but it was to his advantage as well. Experience had taught him that even when someone wasn't inclined to like him (which, to be fair, seemed to be everyone), asking nicely would often get him what he wanted. It wasn't that people liked him more because of his manners...his theory was that they just felt worse about spitefully refusing someone that went out of their way to be nice to them. People are funny like that.

"Alright, well, that'll be a pound, then."

"Yes ma'am." He dug into his pocket, producing a moment later a handful of 1 and 10 pence coins and placing them on the counter, much to the ire of the clerk, who glared at him while he looked away sheepishly. He knew he was making her job that much more tedious, but he really didn't have a choice. Having no money of his own, he'd resorted to spending a sizable portion of his free time collecting coins that had been carelessly dropped on the street. He'd already amassed quite a collection over the past year, so it had only taken another week of diligent searching to collect the rest.

"You sure you ain't got no one pound coins in that pocket of yours?"

Harry nodded sadly. "But I can count these for you, if you'd like."

The girl snorted, before quickly sorting out seven 10 pence coins and 30 pennies.

Harry scooped up the remainder with a smile, placing the left over pennies in his right pocket and the little handheld mirror he'd just purchased in the other.

"You have a good night now," the girl said, her voice flat, if not a little bit strained.

"You too!"

Harry was beaming as he exited the shop. Finally, he had a means to communicate with Tom.

Tom had explained over the course of the last week that though he experienced everything Harry experienced, essentially living inside Harry's head, he couldn't communicate telepathically without expending a non-trivial amount of energy. The mirror was something he called a 'conduit' and would allow Harry to communicate with the other boy even while he rested and regathered the energy he'd lost while defending Harry. Harry wasn't entirely sure why he could only talk to Tom through the mirror – Tom had said something cryptic about the eyes being the window to the soul – but it was better than nothing. What Harry did understand, though, was that for Tom, communicating with Harry without any external aides was quite strenuous, and seizing control over Harry's body was even more strenuous; after attacking Dudley in December, Tom had little energy left, and it would be quite some time before he accumulated enough magic to do more than speak to Harry through the mirror.

So Harry had eagerly agreed to purchase a small mirror to aid in their daily communication. Tom had advised that he should simply steal the inconspicuous object, but Harry had vehemently refused. He didn't want to become a thief.

"I'm better than that, Tom. I'm sure you understand."

The other boy had raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Which, really, was not all that uncommon for him.

Tom was a quiet sort of fellow, Harry had concluded. The few times they'd talked, Tom's countenance had rarely changed at all – it was always this curious, tranquil, and yet somehow fierce gaze that seemed to pierce right through him. It was an odd thing, Harry thought, staring into his own eyes, albeit discoloured, as they burned with a light that seemed to mesmerize him in the most pleasant of ways, while still challenging him with a confidence Harry had not known his face could express. Tom's voice was usually soft, and spoke slowly as though to allow Harry to soak in every word; it almost scared Harry to hear the eloquent, skilled sentences Tom weaved pass through his own lips.

This Tom, he could not help but notice, was nothing like the Tom in his dreams – this was a Tom who'd learned not only to control others, but also himself. Harry had caught himself wondering a few times over the last week if something had happened between Tom's time at Wool's Orphanage and the point at which he had taken up residence in Harry's head (a phenomenon that Tom had so far refused to explain), something that transformed Tom into a well-mannered, perhaps even considerate person, the anger and frustration born of his stifled childhood having faded with the rashness of his younger years. But when Harry looked closely into Tom's eyes, or scrutinized his diction, enunciation, and tone, he knew that this was not the case – Tom had not mellowed over the years; the same anger and cruelty simmered beneath a carefully polished wall of glass; his calm facade carefully crafted yet easily shattered. This Tom, while clearly at least somewhat older and wiser, was probably just as dangerous as the little orphan boy who seemed to do nothing but plot and execute revenge.

Or at least, that was what he thought. It was still a bit early to do more than conjecture.

It was 1 am by the time he had returned to the Dursleys'. It was always a challenge, sneaking out in the middle of the night, but he had practiced many times before - not to get into any mischief, of course; sometimes Harry just liked to watch the stars. Looking up at the sky and knowing that those massive orbs of fire were so far away that he could barely see them - so far away that what he was seeing was thousands, maybe even millions of years old - reminded him that the universe was a big place, and he was only a tiny part of it. It was comforting in a way, and Harry found this sobering comfort to give him the strength he needed to get through the next day.

So Harry sneaked out often, but never got caught. Luckily, the downstairs floorboards weren't very squeaky, making the task doable, but still extraordinarily nerve-wracking.

Once Harry had returned to his cupboard, he allowed himself a deep sigh of relief, but wasted no time in withdrawing the mirror from his pocket.

"Tom? Tom? Are you there?"

"Always, Harry."

Harry grinned at that, his heart leaping at Tom's answer. "Now I can talk to you whenever I want."

"So long as you're not caught doing so."

Tom was looking out for him – the thought made Harry's smile grow even wider.

"Of course not!"

"Good boy. Now, on to business."

"Business?"

"Yes, business. We have much to do."

"We do?...like what?"

"I refuse to live in a cupboard."

Harry blinked. "But _I_ live in a cupboard."

"Not for much longer."

Harry frowned. "Are we going to run away?" He wouldn't mind running away - it sounded like a grand adventure indeed - but he'd rather not have to sleep outside in late December.

Meanwhile, Tom sighed, clearly losing his patience. "No, Harry, your Aunt and Uncle are going to give us one of the bedrooms upstairs."

Harry's eyes eyes grew wide. "They'd never do that! They hate me!"

Tom stared at at him with crimson eyes that very clearly said, _What, are you stupid?_

"Think, Harry. Why do they hate you?"

"Well, apparently it's because I'm an ungrateful freak," Harry said earnestly.

"They _fear_ you, Harry. They hate you because they fear the power you possess."

"Er...what power?"

"You know what I speak of, Harry."

He did. Harry _was_ a freak, a freak that could do strange things, and that's what the Dursleys hated about him. "I don't understand how knowing this helps me."

"You need to use that power."

"To do what?"

"To break them."

Harry frowned. "I don't know how to break people. _Can_ people break?"

"They'll break, Harry. They always break."

"Really?"

"You just need to apply pressure in all the right places."

* * *

"Tom, I need to talk to you."

"About what, Miss Anna?" he replied softly, his face carefully blank and seasoned with just a touch of confusion.

"Tom...Dennis and John have been saying things," the woman began uneasily.

"What kinds of things, Miss Anna?" He stared at her unblinkingly, secretly enjoying the way she squirmed under his gaze.

"They've been finding spiders in their beds, Tom, and Dennis has been having terrible nightmares."

"Oh?" Tom could not help the ghost of a smile that tugged on his lips.

"They believe it's you, Tom. They think you place spiders and ants in their beds and do things to them while they sleep. They _insist._ But that can't be the case, can it Tom?"

Tom looked up at her coyly."I _did_ say I want my own room."

Miss Anna froze. "Tom, all you have to do is explain to me that you haven't done anything, and I'll tell Mrs. Cole you had nothing to do with it, that the boys were just playing games again."

"I want my own room, Miss Anna. I'm sure John and Denis will sleep fine...in a different room."

Miss Anna had grown pale. "Tom, you can't possibly-"

"I want my own room, Miss Anna," he said, his voice cold and firm.

Miss Anna sucked in a sharp breath, and stood slowly on tremoring legs. "Alright, Tom," she whispered. "I'll see to it that you have your own room."

Tom nodded curtly.

"Thank you!" said a soft voice – but of course it wasn't Tom; Harry was waking up.

As usual it took him a few moments to remember where he was. _December 23_ _rd_ _, 1988,_ he told himself, _Number 4 Privet Drive_.

This was the day he was to implement Tom's plan. It wasn't much of a plan, to be fair. Tom said Harry needed to learn to think on his feet, so he had only given Harry an idea, a premise to work off of. Tom's idea was simple; Harry would scare the Dursleys a bit, then demand Dudley's second bedroom – that's it. But Harry was rather uneasy about the whole thing; he really didn't want to scare anyone...he'd had enough of people being scared for a lifetime, but Tom had been very insistent about it.

"Cupboards are for brooms and boxes and dust, Harry. Even the naughtiest of children shouldn't be kept in a cupboard. It's demeaning, and it's a health hazard."

Tom left no room for argument. And as uneasy as Harry was about the whole thing, he wouldn't have been able to argue even if Tom _hadn't_ been so firm. He hadn't ever known anything besides his cupboard, but if all the children at Tom's dreary orphanage could all be afforded a bed, why couldn't Harry? And why the bloody hell did Dudley need _two?_

Yes, Tom didn't have to try very hard to convince Harry that he was in the right in this...otherwise he would never be able muster the courage to do what he was about to do.

He focused on his breathing, as he slipped out of his cupboard, light-footed as usual, and quietly made his way into the kitchen. As he did every morning, he went straight for the coffee maker. The next few minutes passed slowly, as he watched the little brown droplets create ripples in the coffee pot, and soon Aunt Petunia came marching down the stairs, Uncle Vernon bumbling behind her. He didn't look at them, as they sat down at the table, and just like every other day, was completely silent as he made their coffee, crossed the kitchen, and set their mugs on the table. Today, though, he didn't scurry off to make breakfast; today, he stood up straight in front of them, waiting to be acknowledged. He was, after a _very_ awkward minute.

"What is it, boy?" Vernon snapped.

Harry took a deep breath. "I have a request, Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia."

Vernon's face reddened, but only slightly. "A... _request_?"

Harry nodded. "I want Dudley's second bedroom."

"You _what_?"

Aunt Petunia's eyes had widened at least three eighths of a centimetre.

Harry steeled himself. "I'm a a boy, not a broom. I shouldn't be kept in a cupboard."

"Now see here boy, we took you in out of the goodness of our hearts, and you have no right to ungratefully demand -"

"What do you think the neighbours would think if they knew you kept your nephew in a cupboard?" Harry interrupted.

Vernon's face rapidly darkened from rosy red to an ugly shade of purple, while Petunia instantly paled. "You _wouldn't,_ " the fat man sputtered, " _No one_ would believe you!"

Well, so much for that. Harry had really hoped that he'd be able to convince them with words alone. It would have been better that way, easier for everyone.

On to plan B. "I know, which is why I've never said anything." He took another deep breath. "But no one would believe _you_ if you told them your eight year old nephew threatened you into getting his own bedroom. Not to mention, if you told anyone, you'd be incriminating yourself too."

"Threatened?" Vernon spat, while Aunt Petunia continued to pale to an unhealthy shade of yellow. "What get are you getting at boy?"

Harry glared at him. "Boy? Aren't you going to call me _freak_? Because that's what I am, right?" He took a deep breath. "I'm a freak! And do you know what happens when freaks get angry?" The dishes on the table began to rattle ominously, and Harry had to keep himself from smiling gleefully. It had taken whole week of practice to get that part right. It turns out it's very hard to make things shake without breaking them.

"What is that? Stop that, boy! Stop that this instant!"

Harry closed his eyes. He was angry, he told himself, very angry. They _hurt_ him, when he hadn't done anything to them. They treated him like a slave, like an animal – they treated him like vermin. They deserve this, he told himself. They deserve this. They deserve this.

"I'll have none of that freakishness here, boy! I don't know what you think you're playing at, but-"

Harry's eyes snapped open, and at that very instant, the two coffee mugs burst into pieces, scalding hot coffee attacking his Aunt and Uncle in the face. He'd done it. He'd actually done it! Tom was going to be so proud.

He was so thrilled with his success that he didn't even register Petunia's screeching or Vernon's roaring – he was lost, reveling in his victory until Vernon's pudgy hand grabbed him like a vice on his shoulder.

"You nasty, nasty little-"

"Let _go!_ " Harry shouted, startled, and to his utter shock, the massive man listened. Thank goodness, because he didn't know if he could deal with a physical manifestation of Vernon's rage right now.

The adrenaline was dying down, and he had to keep himself from shaking. He needed to leave. If he showed any weakness in front of them, this would have all been for nothing.

He turned his back to them.

"Now, I'm going to the playground for an hour. When I get back, I want my toys and clothes moved up to Dudley's second bedroom, and his things moved out...or else."

"Or else _what_ , boy?" Vernon snarled, lunging forward before he was stopped by a ghostly white Aunt Petunia.

Harry took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes and doing his very best to imitate Tom. "Or else I'll break a lot more than just your coffee mugs."

Seeing their frantic nods, he knew his mission had been a success. Now he just had to wait.

* * *

Harry was building a snowman. There wasn't much snow on the ground, so it was a rather pathetic snowman, but it was still a work of art, he had to say. He'd been so careful to mold the body and head smoothly, and had put much thought into what sticks to use for its slender little arms. Two pennies marked the eyes, and five tiny pebbles the mouth. Yes, it was a lovely snowman - it was just...delicate. Harry thought that his ability to create things from very little was one of his better qualities.

He glanced up at the sky, trying but failing to locate the sun behind the thick blanket of clouds stretching over the heavens. He sighed, retrieving his little mirror – Tom's mirror – from his back pocket.

"Do you think it's been an hour yet?"

"Just about," Tom replied, his face betraying nothing.

Harry nodded. "I suppose I should go back in now."

"Yes, you wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

Harry was silent, as he made his way back to Number 4 Privet Drive. He didn't really know how to act – he'd feel bad, acting as triumphant as he felt. After all, his victory and his prize...they were all at Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's expense. Truth be told, he felt quite bad about the whole thing. He knew it had to be done - Tom wouldn't have it any other way - but he couldn't help but feel like a bit of a bully, scaring his relatives into giving him what he wanted...even if it was something that, arguably, he deserved in the first place. Was it ok to bully a bully? Was it wrong to treat badly those who have treated you worse? Harry really didn't know.

The house was quiet when he returned. Dudley was probably still asleep. The boy slept like the dead, and when school was out, he rarely woke before 10.

After divesting himself of his coat and boats, Harry slowly made his way to Dudley's – now his – bedroom.

When he got to the door, Petunia was still inside, collecting some of Dudley's toys off the ground.

"Aunt Petunia?" he called quietly.

The woman jumped, and spun around to face him with a look of terror on her face.

"Harry."

She calmed her breathing and attempted to stand up straight, only partially succeeding as she rushed out of the room, careful to avoid touching Harry at all.

Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, Harry sighed a sigh of relief. That could have gone a lot worse.

Suddenly, his scar began to sting. Soon after their first meeting, Tom had smugly informed Harry that he could cause Harry massive amounts of pain with little to no effort. He was quite clear that he would remorselessly do so whenever he wanted Harry's attention. Harry supposed that was only fair...it must be terrible to ignored most of the time, he thought.

He pulled Tom's mirror out of his pocket.

A smile was tugging at the corners of his – rather Tom's mouth. "Did you see that?"

Harry frowned tiredly. "See what?"

"The fear in her eyes, the submission in her voice."

"It was kind of hard to miss."

The subtle smile morphed into a sharp smirk. "And that is how it should be, Harry."

"I don't want people to be afraid of me!"

"The powerless will always fear true power – the muggles will always be wary of you; they will always reject you."

Harry cast his eyes to the floor, and he winced at the dull ache in his chest. "Then I'll be alone forever?"

Tom's face transformed into something Harry believed he was supposed to interpret as sympathy. "No, Harry, one day you will meet others who know the greatness of magic, too."

Harry's eyes brightened. "Then there are others like me?"

Tom's smile returned. "There is no one like you, Harry. But there are those who have tasted power, and who will flock to you for more. Their fear of you will not fuel rejection – rather, it will kindle respect."

Harry stared at him, feeling rather befuddled by Tom's statement, but Tom didn't seem to notice.

"Never be afraid of power, Harry. For greatness is your birthright."

* * *

And that's that. Next chapter will be the last 'introduction' chapter so to speak. The real plot will show up in chapter 7.

Please tell me what you think so far - your input both encourages me and helps me improve my work :)


	6. The Dead Rabbit

**Disclaimer** is present.

 **AN:** Please excuse Harry's (mis)use of the term 'retarded' - it's the 1980s and he's a kid.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: The Dead Rabbit**

"Laura – I don't know her last name. She's the one in the pink dress; she keeps tugging on it...I imagine it's difficult to play tag with the boys in such an inconveniently fluffy dress...it's really a wonder no one's bragged about seeing her knickers yet. Her hair was braided when she got to school this morning, but now it's a mess – it's everywhere and covered with dirt, just like her dress. She's awfully loud...unfortunately her voice is squeakier than the boys', and way more annoying. The week she was recovering from tonsillitis was definitely a treat...she's not too bad when she loses her voice. I think she'd rather be wearing trousers and a jumper than that garishly pink dress...I think she wishes she weren't a girl, and I imagine her mother's not too happy about that.

"Tyson Green, the one in the soiled hoodie and ripped jeans. He's crass and makes a point of swearing whenever the teachers aren't around...I used to think he was retarded, because I only ever heard him say 'bloody hell' and 'shit' and 'fuck off'. I also used to think he was from one of the poorer neighbourhoods, but then I noticed his shoes. They change every few weeks, and they're always cleaner than his clothing. They're nice shoes, too. I think the only reasonable conclusion is that his parents are pretty well off, but he doesn't want people to know. Nobody ever notices the shoes.

"Anna Selvig. She's wearing that nice peacoat with the Sunday shoes. She wears the same thing every day, and makes it her primary mission in life not to soil it. You'd think her parents didn't own a washer...well, maybe they don't. I saw her coat up close the other day...it has a fancy-looking brand name on it, but the seams are crooked on the sides and the bottom's a bit frayed. I think it's a nice coat she bought second-hand. Her lunches tend to be comparable to mine, so I'm thinking either her parents don't like her much or her family's pretty poor.

"Tim Wellington – in the shorts and t-shirt. It's still March, what an idiot. I mean, honestly, I'm wearing two t-shirts under my coat and I'm still cold. Maybe he thinks he has something to prove, but I think his strange behaviour can probably be chalked up to he fact that he has a brain the size of his little finger...and he has small hands."

Harry paused, and that was when the bell rang, alerting all the children in the school yard that their hour of freedom was over. Invigorated by the crisp spring air and the over-abundance of calories they'd consumed, they were rather quick to sprint back into their respective classrooms, with Harry trailing slowly behind.

It had become an almost daily task, to narrate the events of the playground in a voice that only Tom could hear. At first, Tom had tasked him with learning all his classmates' names, and after finally managing that he'd been ordered to "search their faces, their steps, and their words for any sign of weakness."

"Remember, knowledge is power."

Thus had Harry become what Tom called 'observant'. Harry just thought he was being a creep. However, as far as Tom's requests went, Harry's daily creeping was a relatively minor inconvenience. And there were a lot of such requests, because Tom had _expectations_ of him. No one had ever expected anything from Harry before. Sure, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia expected him to do his chores; that was actually the one thing Tom agreed with them on. To be clear, Tom didn't think Harry should have to do any manual labour, but Harry refused to actually do anything to follow through with the threats he made and was unwilling to physically hurt his Aunt and Uncle, so Tom said he'd have to live with the consequences.

"You can only use a threat so many times before it becomes idle."

So, since Harry refused to step up his game, so to speak, he had to leave his idle threats for when he really needed them.

Thankfully, after the bedroom incident, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had, on their own, become a little more lax in their demands concerning Harry's chore schedule. He didn't even have to make meals anymore. And this left Harry more time to deal with Tom's _expectations._

Some of Tom's expectations were rather tedious, like the creeping. Harry understood, of course, that this was just one of Tom's many ways of looking out for him; Tom wanted to make sure that Harry took advantage of every skill at his disposal, and in order to do that, Harry had to actually know how to use these skills. Tom said he had a lot to learn, and Harry agreed. Tom had a lot to teach him, and Harry wanted to learn it all.

One of the first things Tom had requested of Harry was that he learned something called _Occlumency_. According to Tom, some witches and wizards had the uncanny ability to _read minds_ (apparently this was a gross oversimplification, but Harry allowed himself the luxury of referring to it as such), which he would apparently be able to do as well. Harry was rather troubled by this fact - he _definitely_ didn't want anyone looking around inside his head - even Tom couldn't tell what he was thinking, and Harry trusted Tom more than anyone.

As it turned out, occlumency was boring. Very, very boring. It involved a lot of closing his eyes, thinking about nothing, and visualizing things like walls and rivers and voids and stuff. If it didn't sound so useful, he'd...well, he'd do it anyway. Tom wanted him to do it, so he'd do it without question. Harry wanted to live up to all Tom's expectations, despite the arduousness of some of the tasks he assigned.

However, things weren't always so dull; some of Tom's expectations were absolutely brilliant. For instance, Tom expected Harry to let him teach him how to use _magic._ The first thing Harry learnt about magic is that one does not ask what magic _can_ do; one asks what magic _cannot_ do. Apparently Harry's _magical core_ (the place deep inside him where all his magic came from) was enormous, and had the potential to become, for all intents and purposes, limitless. Harry's imagination was the limit. Well, not quite; Tom said that discipline and control were what separated good wizards from exemplary ones. The first step in learning control, according to Tom, was learning _spells._

One of the first spells Tom taught him was one to open the latch Uncle Vernon had installed on the outside of his bedroom door.

" _Alohomora."_

The best part was, it worked on every door, every lock, every padlock. It was absolutely brilliant, and Harry felt so incredibly _powerful_ , knowing that he had the ability to go wherever he wanted. Tom said that that was but a minuscule fraction of his power, but it was more than enough power for Harry. He said as much, and Tom mocked him for it, but had eventually conceded that such simple spells would have to suffice for now – he couldn't learn anything too complex because of something called _the Trace._

Tom never explained the Trace – Harry had come to the conclusion that he couldn't, but didn't want to admit it; he was, however, was very clear on the fact that something called _the Ministry of Magic_ would come knocking on his door if he performed any magic that couldn't be explained as accidental. So Tom had promised to teach him something called the 'levitating charm', 'summoning charm', the 'disarming charm', and perhaps the 'disillusionment charm', but that was it for the time being; while Tom had been clear that some of these charms - the summoning charm and the disillusionment charm in particular - weren't exactly easy, they mimicked the behaviour of some accidental magic, and would likely be written off as such is someone ever inquired into the matter. Harry was perfectly satisfied with that, and given the fact that it'd taken him almost 2 months just to umaster unlocking a bloody door, he thought he'd have plenty to do for some time to come. That didn't stop Tom from making scathing comments about the Ministry of Magic on a regular basis, though.

"...filled with backwards, crackpot wizards who are more muggle than magic..."

"...mudblood lovers and blood traitors..."

"...muggle loving whores whose tainted lips are not fit to kiss the ground we walk upon..."

Tom was rather disgruntled about the whole thing – he said it was criminal to place magical children in cities infested with muggles without any means to protect themselves, and Harry had to agree. Muggles – as Tom called them – were blind to the wonders of magic, and simultaneously cruel and weak, and it did not take Harry long to concede that they weren't fit to raise young witches and wizards, not at all.

Harry...disliked muggles. Back before the incident with Sam Stewart, Harry held the conviction that while some muggles could be very unsavoury indeed – like his relatives – most muggles were perfectly kind and considerate people. His relatives, his classmates, the children at Tom's orphanage – they were just bad apples. Lots of bad apples. But there had to be some good ones too, right? So strong was Harry's conviction, that he actually _wanted_ to be a muggle; he just wanted to be normal. He didn't want to be a freak. But when Sam betrayed him, this changed. After Tom told him there was a whole world of witches and wizards and magic out there, Harry finally understood. He _wasn't_ a freak – he was just different. And they hated him because of it. Yes, even 'good' muggles like Sam Stewart, who was kind and honest and brave, feared what they did not know and understand, and that fear made them foolish and cruel. If the best muggle he'd ever known could not escape this fact, how could any of the others? They were all the same – judgmental, angry, and fearful – and Harry wanted nothing to do with them; on that, he and Tom could agree.

However, what Harry couldn't agree with was Tom's conviction that muggles were little more than animals, and could be disposed of as such, if necessary. Tom had made it clear that muggles were worthless enough that their lives could be taken merely to prove a point – and Tom sometimes implied that he had done just that...but Harry didn't understand how that could be possible, because Tom was just a kid like him, right?

Maybe not. Tom had never explicitly confirmed or denied it – but Harry had come to believe that the boy he was sharing a body with was not a boy at all, but a man, and not a young one either. Tom knew far too much, and was far too set in his ways to be anything short of an old man. But Harry, of course, never said that to his face. Given Tom's liberal use pain as a teaching tool and/or communication device, Harry avoided saying things that could irritate his friend too much.

His _friend_. Because despite the age gap, Tom _was_ his friend – his only friend, and a good one at that. He knew everything about Harry, but he never looked at Harry with disgust or fear, not even pity; instead, he told Harry to stay strong – he told him that one day, his time would come, and he would carve out his own place in the world with the power he apparently had so much of.

Harry wasn't stupid. He knew that a significant portion of Tom's concern with his well-being was tied to the fact that anything Harry felt, Tom felt as well. Tom was Harry's friend, but Harry knew he was selfish – it was obvious from the way he talked, even the way he looked at Harry. It was understandable; after all, before he met Harry, Tom was alone. He had no one, and had to become selfish in order to survive. But Harry didn't care, because Tom was _kind_ to him.

Tom only smiled for the purpose of mocking, only spoke softly in an attempt to coax Harry into doing what he wanted, and every quality that Harry prided himself in was under Tom's constant scrutiny. Patience, kindness, longsuffering, empathy, honesty, and guilt all made Harry pathetic and weak, and Tom would often gleefully remind him of this fact. Harry didn't mind, in the end, though, because Tom was only looking out for him – this was Tom's kindness. Tom seemed to have a warped vision of goodness and greatness, but he was constantly pushing Harry to be better, to be stronger. And that meant something to Harry. Something profound. Never before had anyone believed in him, and acted on that belief. Yes, Tom was more than just a friend - though he'd never say it out loud (for Tom would surely deny it), Harry and Tom were family, and no one would convince him otherwise.

Not to mention, Harry would prefer Tom in the worst of his moods to any of his classmates or teachers – who only ever looked at him with fear or indifference – any day.

This is why every night, Harry would spend hours staring into the Tom's little hand-held mirror, listening to Tom's dark, velvety voice. It didn't matter what Tom said or did – Harry wanted to hear it and see it. Seeing Tom was the only thing he ever had to look forward to. Harry wished he could hear Tom's voice in his mind all the time – the silence he suffered through as he sat through boring classes and performed chore after chore was stifling, and incredibly lonely. It was a necessary evil, though; Tom only had access to the smallest fraction of his own magical core, and building up enough energy to do something as small as communicate mentally with Harry was exhausting to him.

Harry was determined to, at some point, rectify this.

Tom had seemed genuinely surprised by Harry's offer to donate some of his magic, but Harry had suggested it without a second thought. Harry didn't know why Tom was so surprised; he apparently had an over-abundance of the mysterious energy – why wouldn't he give some to his friend?

However, the offer came with one condition – Harry wanted to know more about Hogwarts. Tom had told him from time to time about the magical school tucked away in an unplottable region of Scotland – Tom's home. Tom usually declined to tell too many stories about Hogwarts, and had insisted that Harry would eventually start to dream about his Hogwart's days, but when Harry made his generous offer, Tom agreed to tell him more.

It became a currency of sorts; Tom would often try to convince Harry to do things he didn't want to do – like stealing money from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, or slipping things like dish soap or dishwater into their coffee (for educational purposes, of course...apparently this was a skill he'd need later). However, with the promise of a story about Hogwarts, Harry would obey without question, because in his mind, it was more than worth it, and Tom understood this. To Harry, Hogwarts was hope – a reason to keep on living, to keep trying – and the promise of finally going home in a few years time was more than enough to make the miserable boy smile.

And it was all thanks to Tom.

* * *

Tom was quite proud of himself. In fact, he had never been happier, he mused, as he squeezed the dead rabbit in his hands. It was still warm.

The rabbit belonged to none other than Billy Stubbs, Tom's least favourite person in the whole universe. He hated everyone at the orphanage, for sure, but he hated Billy Stubbs the most. Why exactly that was, he couldn't tell you.

They'd argued the day before. Rather, Billy had run his mouth off while Tom glared and plotted silent revenge.

"You've got the Devil in you Tom Riddle. Everyone knows there's something wrong with you."

"Nobody wants you. Nobody will ever want you!"

"You'll be stuck here forever!"

"You're nothing but a freak!"

Tom agreed wholeheartedly, of course. But that didn't mean Billy was allowed to talk to him like that. No, if Stubbs thought he could talk down to Tom Riddle and get away with it, he was in for a nasty surprise.

He smiled at the little creature in his hands. It was rather funny looking – he certainly saw the appeal of watching it hop around clumsily in the grass. He wondered if the pathetic creature could still hop with a leg ripped off. What sort of sounds would it make? He giggled at the thought.

The smile did not leave his face as he wrapped the twine he'd stolen several times around the rabbit's neck. Once he'd finished, he closed his eyes. This was the part he'd been practicing for.

Slowly, the rabbit rose from his hands, the twine sneaking up ahead of it, steadily floating upward until it was high enough to wrap around the rafters. He was sweating by the time the knot had finished tying itself, but it was the effort expended that made the victory all the sweeter.

He grinned as he stared up at his masterpiece – a dead rabbit dangling from the rafters, little black eyes still and body gone limp.

Tom tilted his head to the side. Maybe he should have broken some bones? Or maybe cut something off to place under Billy's pillow? He shrugged. Maybe next time.

Harry was shaking when he woke, guilt washing over him in waves of nausea. Frantically, he wiped the sweat off his brow and struggled to calm his breathing, acutely aware of his wide eyes and wet cheeks. He allowed himself to cough out a few sobs, until, steeling himself, he reached over to the mirror he kept under his pillow.

"T-Tom?"

The boy in the mirror blinked lazily. "Yes Harry?"

"Why did you kill Billy Stubbs's rabbit?"

Something flashed in Tom's eyes – amusement, perhaps – and he smiled grimly. "Because I could."

Harry shook his head, feeling upset by the non-answer. "That's not an answer-"

"But it is. You were there, Harry. You were in my head. You know what I was thinking."

Harry grimaced. "But there's got to be more to it than that..."

"Except there isn't. I'm not a good person, Harry. In fact, I'm a very, very bad person."

"You're not a bad person," Harry whispered. "You're the best, Tom...you're the best person..."

Tom's grim smile stretched into a parody of a grin. "Someday, you'll agree with me Harry. Tom Riddle is always right."

Yes, Tom Riddle was always right - Harry knew this, even if sometimes he wished it wasn't true. If Tom Riddle said he was a bad person, Harry would be a fool to not believe him, no matter how much he didn't want to. But deep inside, he couldn't bring himself to accept it. Tom Riddle was not a bad person. He couldn't be.

But, even if he was, would Harry care?

* * *

Thanks for reading so far. I hope I can continue to entertain you. As always, please review - I really do love reading them. Seriously, as sad as it sounds, they can be the highlight of my day :P


	7. The Tragic Tale of Lily and James Potter

**Disclaimer:** the direct quotes from OotP and HBP definitely don't belong to me, and, for good measure, the rest doesn't either.

* * *

 **Chapter 7: The Tragic Tale of Lily and James Potter**

"You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course – well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

"No one's taking you anywhere against your will, Tom."

"But you are a doctor, aren't you?"

"No Tom, I am a professor."

Tom huffed, exasperated. Honestly, why did everyone think him so naive? "I don't believe you. I hear Mrs. Cole and the others talk, they want me locked up. They think I'm different."

"Perhaps they're right."

Tom glared at the old man, trying to convey how utterly unimpressed he was with his supposed 'insight'. "I'm not mad."

"Hogwarts is not a place for the mad – it is a school; a school of magic."

Tom froze, at that.

"You can do things, can't you, Tom? Things that the other children can't."

"Yes." Finally...finally someone had found him.

"Tell me about some of the things you can do, Tom."

"I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt if I want to..."

"...I can speak to snakes too," Harry moaned a bit, and then continued to mumble, "They find me, they whisper to me..."

He blinked blearily. "Hogwarts..."

He reached under his pillow, pulling out the little mirror and smiling hazily at Tom. "You got your Hogwarts letter!"

The look on Tom's face was unreadable. "As will you, a year from now."

Harry's smile grew sharp and bright. "I can't wait...I wish it was today. I wish I could go today."

"Patience is a virtue, Harry."

Harry scowled playfully. "What would you know about virtue?"

The boy in the mirror smirked, but it was subtle. "Very little. It's all hearsay."

Harry laughed quietly.

"It is your birthday tomorrow, is it not?"

Harry nodded eagerly, despite the discomfort growing inside him like a festering sickness. The last couple of months had been...tense. Tom had been staring at him – really staring at him, his face unreadable, and he refused to confess what was distracting him, no matter how many times Harry asked, and Harry could not help but wonder if the distance they'd managed to close since their first meeting was widening once again. He really hoped not.

Over the past year and a half, Tom had changed. Perhaps he hadn't changed, but at the very least he was less...caged. As time wore on, he started to show emotion – more than just anger, annoyance, and amusement (those, Harry had catalogued as his default states); there were times when he even seemed troubled, or betrayed sentiments akin to affection. When Harry confessed his fears and insecurities, there were times when Tom would refrain from mocking him, and would instead grimly acknowledge his confession, and offer silent solidarity. There were times when Harry could swear he saw genuine pride in Tom's eyes when he managed to master a new spell, and while Tom still stared on impassively when Harry referred to him as his friend, he no longer mocked and denied it. And then there was the thing about parseltongue...Tom would never admit it, of course, but Harry had come to recognize that Tom found Harry's enunciations of the language of serpents _endearing_...a fact that he had learned to use to his advantage.

Tom had become more human...in some ways. But with Tom's new openness came further evidence that he may have been wrong, and that Tom, as always, was right – Tom Riddle was not a good person. There were times when he seemed a little...unhinged. It had become evident that he really did take great pleasure in his own cruelty, and that he was not capable of expressions that came easily to Harry – like sympathy, remorse, and grief. Tom never showed any regard for anyone besides himself and Harry, which was...concerning. Especially since, as the months slowly passed, Harry found himself acting more and more like Tom. He didn't think he was being cruel, no, and he certainly wasn't remorseless...but at the same time, stealing money from Aunt Petunia didn't bother him very much anymore, and neither did scaring Dudley off with carefully placed 'accidental' magic. He found that he no longer had any interest in gaining the approval from the Dursleys, and didn't want to even try to befriend his classmates. He'd never say it out loud, but they were all just so... _pointless_. He didn't want to hurt them or scare them, like Tom encouraged him to...but he didn't want anything to do with them, either. Tom had noticed his change in behaviour, and seemed pleased by it. And, as it happened, a pleased Tom was a Tom less inclined to torture Harry on a whim, and more inclined to crack a joke. Apparently, Tom Riddle had a sense of humour. Who knew?

But the last couple of months saw Tom becoming distant again, opting out of their daily storytime sessions and cutting conversations short. He obviously had something on his mind, which he was neglecting to tell Harry about...and as much as Harry trusted Tom, the whole thing made him uneasy.

"I do have a present for you, Harry."

Harry glanced at him, surprised. "Err...you didn't like, possess me in my sleep and steal something, did you?"

"And why would I waste my magic on something like that?"

"Because you value my happiness?"

An eyebrow twitched. "No."

Harry pouted, but Tom continued to ignore him, "What I want to give you cannot be bought or stolen. It's something I've never deigned anyone else worthy of."

"Uh...wow. What is it?"

"The truth."

Harry blinked. "Ok...that sounds...brilliant. So, what did you want to tell me?"

"We will speak of it tomorrow."

"Why not now?"

"I would not want to ruin your birthday for you."

Harry frowned. "You won't ruin my birthday."

"Oh? And how would you know that?"

"C'mon Tom! I wanna know now."

Tom looked entirely unimpressed.

 _:Pretty, pretty please?:_ Harry added sweetly, in parseltongue, for good measure.

In the mirror, Tom rolled his eyes. : _You are a nasty, manipulative child. I hope you know that.:_

 _:If I am, it's entirely your fault.:_

Predictably, Tom sighed in resignation. "Very well."

Harry grinned.

"Do no't look so pleased with yourself; I can change my mind, if I so wish it."

Harry did his best to straighten his face.

"Now...before I give you the truth...I must tell you a story."

Harry's eyes brightened. "What kind of story?" he asked eagerly.

"A story about a wizard, a witch, and a man named Lord Voldemort."

Harry coughed out a laugh. "Lord who? Voldymort? What kind of name is that?"

As soon as he asked, his scar began to burn, causing him to wince. "Lord Voldemort, Harry."

"Fine, Voldemort. What kind of name is that?"

"A name so feared that thousands of witches and wizards will not say it aloud. They called him 'He Who Must Not Be Named'."

Harry's eyes widened and he sat up straight. "He Who Must Not Be Named? Why? Why were they so afraid of him?"

"Because, Harry, Lord Voldemort was the most powerful wizard to ever walk the earth, and was the darkest of all dark wizards, well versed in the blackest of black magics. He was the Dark Lord."

Harry stared at him in awe, transfixed. "The Dark Lord? A real Dark Lord? He was real?"

Tom nodded gravely. "Yes, the Dark Lord Voldemort was as real as you and I."

"And he was really powerful?"

"He was."

"So if he was a dark lord...did he hurt people? Is that why they were so afraid of him?"

"Indeed it is, Harry. Lord Voldemort brought suffering to many, and through his cruelty and power, inspired fear in thousands."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"You see, Harry...the Dark Lord Voldemort waged war on the wizarding world."

"War? Against wizards? Why would wizards and witches fight other wizards and witches?"

Tom sighed. "It was...a complex matter. There are those who believe one's magical lineage is of the utmost importance, while there are those who discount it all together. The issue of blood purity is one of great importance to wizards, Harry, and it is a conflict steeped in ancient tradition, prejudice, money, power, and corruption. Of this conflict was born a civil war, fostered by Lord Voldemort and his followers."

"And Lord Voldemort..."

"Fought against the Ministry of Magic, and allied himself with the old families of the wizarding world, the families who value blood purity and who preserve the art of dark magic."

"So...he was a racist snob."

Another shot of pain pierced Harry's forehead.

"Withhold your judgments for now, Harry, and listen to the rest of the story."

"Yes, Tom."

"Now, there were many who opposed Lord Voldemort, for varying reasons – some because they had no respect for the purity of wizarding blood, others because they refused to acknowledge the superiority of wizardkind over muggles, and still others because they opposed the use of dark magic -"

"Um, Tom? What is dark magic?"

"Another story for another time."

Harry pursed his lips. "Fine."

"Now, among those who opposed Lord Voldermort were a man and a woman, a wizard and witch barely out of Hogwarts. They...loved each other very much, just as they loved their child."

"They had a kid?"

"Yes, the wizard and witch were man and wife, and together had a son, born into the strife and horror of civil war."

"And what happened to them?"

"They died," Tom said, simply. "And that is what this story is about - their deaths."

Harry looked at him, puzzled. Why was Tom telling him a story of the death of this family for his birthday?

"It so happened that on one night, a servant of the Dark Lord overheard something strange – the words of a seer; the words of a prophecy."

"A prophecy?"

"Yes, a prophecy that foretold the coming of a child with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord."

Harry's wide eyes grew even wider as excitement stirred in his chest. "So what happened next?"

"When the Dark Lord heard of this prophecy, he was furious, and became determined to kill the child before he grew strong enough to fight."

"He wanted to kill a kid? That's terrible..."

Tom stared at him a moment, an unreadable look marring his face. "...indeed. Now, the prophecy claimed that this child would be born of those who had thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies."

"And...the witch and wizard...had they defied Lord Voldemort three times?"

"Yes, and their child, a son, was born as the seventh month died. So Lord Voldemort bestowed upon this child the honour of being hunted by the Dark Lord himself."

"Some honour."

"More than you know, Harry."

"Then what happened? To the witch and wizard? And their son?"

"They learned of Lord Voldemort's plans, and went into hiding. But one of their closest friends, one of the few that knew of their location, betrayed them to the Dark Lord."

Harry gasped. "And he found them?"

"Yes. He found them, and then he came for them. On the night of All Hallows Eve, the Dark Lord Voldemort made his way to the home of the witch and wizard and their son, the child with the boded power to vanquish the Dark Lord. First, he killed the wizard, who died bravely, protecting his wife and son. Then, he turned his wand on the witch. He showed her mercy, and gave her the chance to step aside, but she refused, and he killed her as well."

Harry frowned, pity for the unfortunate family welling up in his heart.

"Finally, Lord Voldemort turned his wand on the little boy, the prophesied child, and said the words _avada kedavra_."

Harry's eyes flashed with recognition. "The killing curse."

"That is correct. But that night, the strangest thing happened – the killing curse failed to kill its target, and the child, instead of dying at the hands of the Dark Lord, was spared."

Harry gaped at him. Tom had told him of the three unforgivable curses - three pieces of crude, evil magic that attack the soul itself; Harry knew that the killing curse rends the soul from the body, that it was impossible to survive. "But how?"

"The witch, his mother, was very powerful, and very clever. So when she heard of the Dark Lord's plan to kill her son, she created a spell from the most secret and oldest of magics, a spell that would save her son, at the expense of her own life. It was...ancient and rare magic, Harry, magic that could only be wielded by the unconditional love of a mother for her son. This was a power the Dark Lord knew not, a power he was not prepared to match.

"So you see, Harry, when Lord Voldemort killed the witch, he activated the spell she had cast, and the child was spared. However, the killing curse was not rendered ineffective; instead of killing the child, it rebounded, and instead attacked the Dark Lord himself."

Harry stared at him, stunned.

"And thus the Dark Lord Voldemort fell, while the child lived, unharmed...except for a scar."

Wait.

"...a scar."

"Yes."

Harry paled at that, a flurry of thoughts stirring in his mind.

"Now Harry, what month is it?"

"...July."

"Which is...?"

"The seventh month...and it's the end of the seventh month...my birthday is the day the seventh months dies...and I have a scar...and my parents are dead..."

Tom nodded. "Do you understand, now?"

Harry nodded shakily. "Then...they didn't die in a car crash."

"They most certainly did not. Lily and James Potter died fighting for the life of their son; you, Harry Potter. They died bravely, with honour; some would call them heroes."

Harry looked down at his hands, and then back at the mirror. His parents...they were murdered. They were killed, right in front of him, _because of him._ A dull ache was spreading across his chest, while is shoulders grew heavy and his head light, tears starting to gather in his eyes. "My parents...did you know them?"

Tom grimaced a bit, at that. "Well you see, Harry, the story is not over yet."

"...it's not?"

"No. What I have told you is the truth...but not the truth I mean to give to you. Fetch that notebook beside the bed, and the pencil beside it."

Harry dried his eyes with his sleeve. "Um, ok."

"I want you to write my name."

"Your name?"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Ok..."

"Now write the name 'Lord Voldemort'."

Harry obeyed, a frown marring his tear-stained face.

"Now look."

"Look at what?"

"Look."

So Harry did, his frown deepening. Two names...Tom Marvolo Riddle and Lord Voldemort, one on top of the other, granite scratches on old, yellowed pages. Why did Tom have him write them both? How was Tom connected to Voldemort? It must be the name, he thought furiously, something about the name...

They were different lengths, one was a full name, the other a title. One was clearly English and the other was...something else...maybe French? The letters...they shared a lot of letters. Actually, now that he looked closely, every letter in 'Lord Voldemort' corresponded to a letter in 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'. And there were three left over...'m'...'a'...'i'...

"Who am I?"

And then he gasped.

"I...am...Lord Voldemort?"

"We are. You and I...we're remnants of the dark lord."

Harry was pale and still, and so Tom – rather, Voldemort – continued his tale. "You see, Harry, I am a powerful wizard. My power...was legendary, true genius amidst the greatness of magic. But even the most powerful are not immune to the illness that plagues all men; death. I have never been under the illusion that I am invincible, so I created a failsafe. Five of them, in fact. They are called horcruxes. Now Harry, a horcrux is an object which holds part of a person's soul, a magical hiding place, of sorts. In the case of that person's death, the horcruxes act as anchors, and keep the master soul from passing on to whatever lay beyond the veil of death. So you see, while Lord Voldemort's body was destroyed, he lived on...his soul grounded by the five horcruxes he had already created...and moreover, that night, when Lord Voldemort perished by his own killing curse, his soul split once more. One piece, the master soul, would have fled once our body was destroyed, and the other...I am a piece of Lord Voldemort's soul, and you, Harry Potter, are his horcrux. Lord Voldemort lives on...through us."

Harry blinked, his face still – but the stillness of his face did not stop the tears from falling. "You...you killed my parents?"

"I did. And many, many others."

"Why...why would you do that?"

"I told you, Harry, there was a prophecy-"

Harry grit his teeth painfully as fury errupted inside of him. The sound of shattering glass was distant to him, as he sat there shaking and sobbing. "SO WHAT? A prophecy? Why does that have to mean anything?"

"...it does not. I know that now. Whatever the prophecy said, I now believe it to be null and void...it was a mistake to chase after vague omens of the future uttered by an old woman with too much drink in her. It was a mistake, and I have paid for that mistake. But that does not mean I am sorry for what I did. I made a mistake, yes, Harry, but I will not insult you by pretending that I feel remorse for what I took from you that night. I had taken many mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters before that...the lives of Lily and James Potter meant no more to me than any of the others."

"Then...all of this...I was alone, and hated, and feared, and locked in a cupboard – because of you? And you don't feel the least bit sorry for it?"

"No, I don't."

Harry looked at him, horrified, the anger slowly draining away, leaving only shock and defeat behind. "You...don't care? You don't care at all?"

The boy...man...monster in the mirror sighed. "For what it is worth, given the choice, knowing what I now know, I would spare your parents. No magical child should be treated as you have been."

Harry scowled through his tears. "Just muggle ones, then?" he bit out scathingly.

Tom was unfazed. "They are not my problem."

"And why am I your problem?"

"We are one and the same now, Harry. My life is tied to yours. I have plans for you, and so your fate is very much my concern," he replied frankly, as though it were a simple matter.

"And what if I don't want any part in your plans?"

"Then...I will have to rethink them."

"I don't understand why you've told me this – why didn't you just lie? Wouldn't it be easier for both of us?"

"This is my gift to you, Harry. It is what I give to you freely of my own accord, at my own expense. You see Harry, I once thought you to be weak, an impressionable child to be molded as I see fit. I saw you as an obstacle in my path, a gateway to my freedom. But I understand, now, that your worth extends beyond a body and a name for me to take as mine. There is a purity in you, in your magic, that I have not seen before. It is an aggressive, corrosive sort of light that I had not thought existed.

 _:You have impressed me, Harry Potter, and...you have earned Lord Voldemort's respect. That is why I am telling you the truth.:_

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then another, and then another...

He slid the mirror under his pillow.

"Goodbye, Tom."

* * *

Harry had expected to wake to unbearable pain and a bleeding scar, but he didn't.

July 31st, 1990...he was 10 years old. Every year, when his birthday came and went, he expected to feel something, some sort of change; after all, birthdays were supposed to be special, right? But he felt nothing. Every year, it was the same; July 31st came and went, the seventh month dying silently in its sleep.

But this year was different. This year, he was Harry James Potter, a 10 year old wizard and the son of Lily and James Potter, a witch and wizard who died bravely protecting him. This year, he knew the truth - that he was living on stolen time. This year, he knew that his mother and father had not left him to die a meaningless death; they were tragically murdered...at the hands of his friend. His best friend. While Lily and James Potter lay silent and still and a cold grave, Harry Potter spent the years they never had the chance to, feeding and caring for a body he shared with the man who had stolen everything from them.

He looked down at the little white candle he held in his hand, as he sat sullenly at the edge of his bed.

 _"Incendio."_

This year, he was an orphan without a family...the only family he thought he had had taken his true family from him...remorselessly, without mercy.

He was alone.

"Happy Birthday, Harry."

* * *

"Get up."

Tom stared dispassionately at the prone forms lying at his feet. Frowning, he poked little Amy Benson's face with his shoe.

"Amy~" he sang sweetly, hoping to coax her to her feet, "Time to wake up."

But there was no response.

He looked at the other body, kicking it a few times with a mild frown on his face. "Dennis, get her up."

The boy didn't move.

They weren't listening to him. _Why_ weren't they listening to him? Why? _Why?_

Fury exploded within him, and he felt his face contort into a horrible scowl. "Get UP!"

Still, no response.

Tom sighed. "Oh dear. I broke them, didn't I?"

He shook his head sadly. "Now how am I going to explain this to Mrs. Cole?"

* * *

"Tom – Tom! Please stop, please! Jack's had enough! He's sorry, he really is!"

The boy stopped writhing on the ground.

"Fine. It was getting boring anyway."

* * *

"A girl _died_ , Riddle."

"Yes, it's a shame I had to cut things short. But I'm sure there will be opportunities to repeat the experiment at some point in the future."

"She's _dead_ , Riddle."

"Yes, Avery, you already brought up that particular point."

* * *

"I killed my father."

"...What...?"

"Oh, close your mouth, Black. It's undignified."

"Sorry, I just...I thought you said you killed your father."

"I did, and his filthy muggle parents too. It wasn't as...cathartic as I hoped it would be, but the fact that it's over and done with does provide something of a sense of relief."

"Riddle," Black hissed, "Don't make jokes like that. It's not funny."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Do you think I'm lying to you, Black?" he said slowly, dangerously.

The boy beside him paled rapidly. "You...you don't mean...Riddle! You could get in a lot of trouble for something like that."

Tom waved him off. "I framed my uncle. I'm not worried."

"And you..."

"And I what?"

"You don't feel...conflicted about it? At all?"

Tom frowned. "Why would I?"

* * *

"I love you." She looked up at him with expectant eyes, glimmering with hope.

"And what do you want me to do about that?"

"Say you love me too!"

He sighed. "I'm not really in the mood to lie right now. Can you just go away? I'd like to get back to my Potions essay."

* * *

"I thought you were my friend."

There was hope in his eyes, a wretched sort of hope that made him want to laugh and furiously rip the other's face off at the same time.

"Friend? I suppose. But that does not mean I cannot kill you."

* * *

His bedroom was dark, painted with the vaguest hint of a sunrise, and Harry was still as he sat cross-legged on his bed, mind whirling at an incredible speed. He felt sick, dizzy. He was about to do the right thing...he thought. But it felt...so wrong. Everything felt wrong.

He traced the scar on his forehead slowly, carefully.

This _was_ the right thing to do.

And he had to do it.

He closed his eyes, steeling himself. He knew what he had to do.

"I forgive you."

It was early, before 7 am, and the day was August 8th, 1990. Harry woke before the sun that morning, his mind busy and sharp. He hadn't moved since waking up, but as soon as he made his decision, he wasted no time in pulling out the mirror from below his pillows and proclaiming his forgiveness to his shell-shocked reflection.

"...what?"

"I forgive you, Tom."

Harry doubted Tom Riddle had ever looked less sure of himself. Indeed, the look on his counterpart's face was that of utter shock, seasoned with...incredulity? Horror? "I killed your parents. I turned my wand on you when you were just an infant."

That he did.

"You have suffered, Harry Potter, more than any child should suffer, and this suffering is of my own making. Every tear you have shed, every bruise, cut, abuse...all this -"

"Tom." Harry sighed softly, allowing himself a few moments and one deep breath before he willed a small, sad smile to grace his lips. "I know that. And I know that it was wrong, terribly wrong...but you didn't. You didn't understand. And you'll never understand." He looked at Tom with tears in his eyes, his face pained with acceptance and pity. "You'll never know love, or friendship...and I feel sorry for you."

"You -"

"I forgive you."

Tom's red eyes drilled into him, expressionless.

"You're a fool Harry Potter."

 _:I know.:_

* * *

And that's how it all began...

Do tell me what you think! Just click on that little box down there, type a few words, and click the post button, I know you want to ;)


	8. The Best Laid Plans

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this.

 **AN1:** So, a lot of you were quite surprised that Voldemort decided to tell Harry the truth. I wanted to clarify that Voldemort is, in fact, still a liar, and is good at it...and the best liars know when to tell the truth. Harry _would_ find out about his parents no matter what, and if he found out on his own, that would really damage whatever trust has been built between them. By telling Harry voluntarily, at a point where there was no risk of of Harry discovering the truth himself, Voldemort has both convinced Harry that he trusts and respects him, and made Harry feel like he owes him for his honesty. Really, it's the only smart move he could make at this point; he's had a year and a half to ingratiate himself to Harry, and has a year to build up any lost trust again.

 **AN2:** On that note, I thought I should point out that Harry is NOT a reliable narrator. Anything written from his POV (i.e., most of the story) is influenced by his (largely mistaken) subconscious belief that he owes everything to Tom, and that what he's done in the past doesn't matter. That's why I am including chapters (like this one) from other POVs.

* * *

 **Chapter 8: The Best Laid Plans**

There was something very, very wrong with the boy. He had known from the beginning that there was something strange about the boy's magic; he had always known that it (well, the strange hybrid of his and what he had deduced was his mother's magic) was plentiful and potent enough that it would have a significant impact on his personality. He knew that the boy's heart and soul were pure, yet warped, just like his magic; he knew that there was something...off about the unwarranted and almost eerie innocence the child seemed to drag with him through every trial and every challenge. But he had had no idea just how deep the divide was. How was it possible for a child to be raised with the _Dark Lord_ as his only friend and confidant, and still retain such saintly purity?

He _forgave_ him. He had hoped the boy would come around, so to speak, that practicality would win out, and that the child, who was quite reasonable for a boy his age, would grudgingly agree that it was in their best interest to work together. He knew the boy would eventually be grateful to him for his honesty; he knew that little, lonely Harry Potter would give in in the end, but that's exactly what it would be - giving in. But no, the child had to blatantly throw everything out the window.

Tom Riddle, and later Lord Voldemort, was well versed in the subtleties of human nature. He was a prodigy and genius, not only in magic, but in charisma and the manipulation of the human heart. Lord Voldemort knew what made people _tick._ He could predict the actions of his enemies and allies with ease, and it was this skill, this _expertise_ that made him appear infallible and terrifying to so many. But this _10 year old boy_ had managed to completely unravel every thread in his carefully crafted perspective on humanity; he had managed to surprise him. No, that was an understatement; he had managed to utterly shock him.

He _forgave_ him.

Was that even possible? Was it possible to forgive the source of all of one's misery? Was it possible to forgive someone who stole every chance of happiness and love from an innocent child? Was it even possible to forgive someone who was not even sorry?

Lord Voldemort did not forgive, so he was at a loss to explain Harry Potter's inexplicable revelation.

As much as this turn of events appeared to be in his favour, it had him...more than slightly concerned. His plans for Harry Potter, while no longer involving manipulating the boy into becoming the perfect vessel for his master soul - there was simply no way the amount of light magic dwelling in the boy could be filtered out efficiently enough to make him a viable vessel; their magical cores were simply too incompatible, begging the question of how exactly the child's magic had facilitated his awakening in the first place...a conundrum he had yet to find a feasible explanation for - revolved around the assumption that there would be a tenuous but codependent relationship between the two; a symbiosis of sorts. He would use the boy's (well-warranted) distrust in him to spur him on to become powerful in his own right; he would use the boy's begrudging fear and feelings of betrayal to coax him into a state of paranoia and desperation...and when the time was right, he'd let slip how to create horcruxes, and the boy would make one of his own, ultimately ensuring his safety. Harry Potter's fear and hatred of him was supposed to facilitate a hunger for power, which would in turn sharpen his fear of failure and death...and this was was exactly what he needed to make his horcrux immortal, and by extension, him as well.

But no, the boy was never going to make it that easy. He didn't fear or hate him - he _forgave_ him. Lord Voldemort could easily manipulate fear and hatred - they were two emotions he knew well - but the... _whatever it was_ that made the boy so understanding and forgiving, he did not even know how to begin to make sense of that. Should he try to persuade the boy he was not trustworthy? Should he attempt to manipulate the boy through 'friendship'? How does one persuade someone _that_ good-natured to create a horcrux? This was going to take some very serious thought. Fortunately, Lord Voldemort was not one to back down from a challenge.

He had one year to come up with a new plan and put it into action...but the sooner he got started the better; he needed to begin his work as soon as possible. The key obstacle to overcome was the unfortunate fact that he could no longer count on his ability to predict Harry Potter's actions - the boy was playing by a different set of rules than he was. As of August 8th, 1990, Harry Potter was more than a mere pawn, a merely passive piece of his own on the chess board; he had leapt off the chessboard and graduated to the status of _variable_ , and would possibly one day ascend to the designation of _player._ Either way, Harry Potter could no longer be considered a simple and predictable child, and would therefore be much harder control than he had initially bargained for. So the first question he needed to ask was, if he could not control the boy as a pawn, what was the boy to him?

The boy would never be a Death Eater. He would never be a mere follower. No, he was something entirely different. An _ally._ That's what the boy would have to be, his ally. Perhaps his placating words had borne some truth after all; perhaps the boy _was_ deserving of some degree of respect - no one had ever _accidentally_ outmaneuvered Lord Voldemort before. And if Lord Voldemort could not control the boy, who could? The child was an _opportunity_ , an opportunity to gain an upper hand in the war that was to come; an opportunity too unique to pass up.

He was getting _excited_ now. Harry Potter would be a challenge indeed, not to mention a source of constant entertainment. He was sure, at this point, that he did not have to worry about the child falling too far under Dumbledore's influence - the old man, who was no doubt the one that abandoned the child with his hated relatives, had no leverage, because he was already _forgiven_. No, the challenge here was to cement his place in the boy's heart before anyone else had the chance to take his place. _Tom Riddle_ would always be Harry Potter's first friend, first confidant, first teacher, and the only family he'd ever known. The boy already knew what he was (the child wasn't stupid; there was no way dear Tom's unmistakable depravity had escaped his attention), and if the fact that he'd waged war on the wizarding world and murdered his parents, and was entirely remorseless about the whole thing, didn't scare him away, nothing would. The boy was _his;_ nothing would change that now.

Together, they would be great. Harry Potter would become his most valuable ally and his most prized possession, and would be the one to bring the wizarding world to its knees - he could see the future unraveling in front of him. Yes, one day Harry Potter would be a great wizard, and he was his. _Only_ his.

* * *

Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	9. Yew and Holly

**Disclaimer:** I own none of this. Obviously.

* * *

 **Chapter 9: Yew and Holly**

Harry looked over the comic book in his hand to stare questioningly at Tom's mirror, which was propped up against the wall beside him. "Do you consider yourself evil?"

Tom did that eyebrow thing he always did when Harry annoyed him. "There is no good and evil -"

"-only power and those too weak to seek it. I know, I know. But do you _feel_ like a bad person? Ever?"

"It has never occurred to me to think of myself as such."

"Hmmm...do you consider yourself amoral then?"

"That may be...an accurate description," Tom conceded. "How long do you plan on wasting your time with those muggle picture books?"

"They're not picture books! They're comic books. And it's not wasting time! I'm learning about fighting evil from the most genius crime solver ever!"

"Oh?" Tom drawled, entirely unimpressed.

"Batman!"

Tom blinked, and then burst into laughs. It was always a bit disconcerting to watch Tom exude laughter (which was often more a chilling cackle), especially after learning that he was, in fact, a dark lord. Something told him that in the past, when Tom Riddle laughed, someone usually ended up dead. "And what, pray tell, is a _bat man?_ "

"He's the dark knight that watches over Gotham City from the shadows – the caped crusader!"

"Gotham City? There's no such place."

"That's not the point, _Tom_. He's...well, he's Batman!"

"I fail to see how bats are in any way relevant to this...caped crusader."

"Well, I suppose his costume looks very bat-like, you see?" He looked down at the comic and pointed to the panel depicting the full form of Batman, in all his caped glory.

"Costume?"

"Yeah! He wears a costume so that the police and the villains don't discover his true identity, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne."

"I see. So if I understand correctly, this Batman is a vigilante, yes?"

"Uh huh."

"And you admire this vigilante?"

"Of course! He saves people, and fights villains."

"Villains like Lord Voldemort?"

Harry froze, frowning a bit. : _You're different, Tom.:_

 _:And what makes Lord Voldemort so different, Harry?:_

Ah, there it was again. Over the last two and a half weeks, Tom had been probing him with similar questions. Harry understood where he was coming from; Tom had risked a lot, telling him about his parents, and knowing Tom, he expected him to be angry, resentful, and grief stricken about the whole thing. But he wasn't. It was not in Harry's nature to be angry and resentful; he rarely got worked up about anything, and usually felt quite bad about it afterward. He'd been confused at first, hurt and disappointed, but he was never really angry. As for the grief...well to be honest, he was a bit conflicted about that aspect of the whole ordeal. He knew he was supposed to feel something...more. He knew that the truth of his parents' death was supposed to weigh him down significantly...and it _did_ to some degree. But the fact of the matter was that Harry knew very little of his parents, and didn't remember them at all - he didn't even know what they looked like. He didn't ever recall having a loving family, so how was he supposed to fully experience the grief of losing it? Perhaps that would change over time, as he learned more about his parents and their world, but for now...he had Tom. Only Tom.

So Harry did his best to restore the dynamic of their relationship to what it had been a couple of months prior, while Tom assisted...albeit somewhat reluctantly.

: _Well, you're my friend. My best friend.:_

"There is something very, very wrong with your head, Harry Potter."

"Yeah, it's you."

"No, I don't think I have anything to do with this particular malfunction."

Harry laughed at that, oblivious to the calculating stare Tom was boring into him.

"Have you been continuing with your studies?"

Harry pouted. "It's summer time."

"That's no excuse to cultivate sloth."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I've been reading the mathematics books you made me borrow, but I've already finished all the primary school ones."

"And the others?"

Harry scowled. "I read the history book and the astronomy book. I haven't looked at the other ones yet. I don't even see why I have to bother with this, though. I'll be going to Hogwarts in a year."

Tom scowled back at him. "You _will_ continue studying science, mathematics, Latin, and history in the summer time."

"Tom, that's so unfair."

"The Dark Lord does not care about what's fair, Harry."

"Of course you don't." Harry sighed. "Science and maths, I get. Latin too. But since when does Lord Voldemort give a damn about _muggle_ history?"

"Language, Harry."

Harry blinked. "Language? Yesterday you called my mom an obsessive mudblood hag."

"Slip of the tongue."

"Does that mean you're sorry? Because that hurt my feelings, you know."

"No. In answer to your question, however, muggle history is, unfortunately, a necessary evil for young minds such as yourself. Too many witches and wizards are woefully uninformed of the events of the muggle world, and as a result are oblivious to the fact that despite being inferior creatures, muggles _are_ dangerous."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Dangerous, Tom?" he said skeptically.

"Yes, Harry, _dangerous_. There are billions of them. Quite literally. That alone is cause for worry. And they are not without their weapons. I still remember when the papers proclaimed the destruction of two Japanese port cities in 1945. Splitting the atom – _muggles_ managed that, 50 years ago. Which is why they should be disposed of before they become even more clever."

"They're not vermin, Tom."

"Perhaps not, but they are mere animals nonetheless."

"So are we."

"That is where you are wrong, Harry - those of us with magic have risen to a new level of being; it is we, not the muggles, who are the true future of humanity."

Harry frowned. "You know...sometimes you sound kind of like Hitler."

Sharp pain flooded Harry's scar.

"Lord Voldemort does not appreciate being compared to a muggle dictator."

Harry shrugged as he rubbed his forehead. "Ok, no need to get angry."

"My cause was much more well founded. Muggles are muggles, no matter the colour of their skin or the place of birth of their ancestors."

"Aren't wizards and witches the same, though?"

"No, Harry, they aren't."

"I don't really understand, though. I'm a half blood, and you're a halfblood, right?"

Tom looked a bit put off. "Yes."

"Well, why do you think you're better than everyone else then?"

"Because I am."

"But you're not a pureblood."

"No, I am not."

 _:Tooommmm,:_ Harry whined in parseltongue, _:It doesn't make any sense.:_

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You're a naive child; I don't suppose that it would. So let me make it simple for you; purebloods monopolize the majority of the money, status, and influence in the wizarding world. It has been like this for longer than living memory, and it is not likely to change anytime soon. Lord Voldemort has no interest in the weak."

"I'm not quite sure I know what you're getting at."

"Then think about this, Harry. Purebloods are influential and wealthy, and their support as a whole is a significant advantage. Additionally, pureblood society is governed by etiquette and archaic traditions, making them easier to manipulate and control than, for example, muggleborns who have been immersed in the postmodern individualistic mindset of the muggle world. It is also worth noting that most pureblood families keep a careful record of their members through family histories and genealogies – this makes finding information on purebloods very easy. On the opposite side of the spectrum, muggleborn wizards and witches are much more unpredictable, and tend to display more variation in background and behaviour, and the lack of birth records of them contributes to this. So tell me, Harry, if you wanted to gain and maintain control over the wizarding world, who would you oppress, and who would you coddle?"

Harry's eyes were wide with understanding. "I see. That's actually quite clever."

Tom smirked.

"Awful," Harry quickly corrected, "But clever."

"Now, while I can think of nothing more rousing than discussing politics and morality with a ten-year-old -"

Harry scrunched up his nose. "That was a veiled insult, wasn't it?"

"Insult, not veiled. That aside, we must have a serious discussion."

"Er...wasn't that what we were just doing?"

"That was Lord Voldemort indulging his apprentice -"

"I would rather not consider myself a dark lord in training..."

"- but now we must turn to more urgent affairs."

"I feel like you discount me sometimes, Tom."

"Stop being facetious. In less than a year you will receive your Hogwarts letter, and for the following seven years you will be under the watchful eye of some of the most dangerous wizards and witches alive. This is something that _must_ be discussed."

"Uhh..."

"They _cannot_ , under any circumstances, know about me."

Harry blinked. "Why?"

"Because they will do anything necessary to separate me from you, and in the process, you will die."

Harry paled. "C'mon Tom, I'm sure they'd be more understanding than that."

"There's nothing to understand, Harry. Lord Voldemort was one of the the most powerful wizard to walk the earth, and he slaughtered thousands without mercy. They are perfectly justified in using any means necessary to end me."

"But you're not doing anything wrong _now._ "

"And this is the current topic up for discussion."

"Umm...how so?"

"In the initial stages of our interactions, I had a plan, Harry, to eventually take control of your body, and use it to construct for my master soul a vessel with which we could resume the war we were waging."

Harry grimaced at that, but was, honestly, not too surprised. He supposed that were he a dark lord in Tom's position, he would do the same thing. "Ummm...that was past tense you were using, right?"

"Indeed it was. I have since rejected that plan."

Harry laughed uneasily. "Why the change of heart?"

"You fascinate me, Harry Potter. I would rather make use of you than throw you away."

"Thanks...I think. I'm...honoured?"

"As you should be."

And he was - this was Tom's way of telling him that he cared for him, after all. "So...what's the new plan?"

"It will be revealed in time."

"Awww..."

"Right now, we must focus on ensuring our survival."

"Ok...and how do we do that?"

"I need my wand."

"Your...wand?"

"Yes."

Harry supposed that made sense. "Well, where is it?"

"Godric's Hollow, Cornwall."

Understanding dawned on Harry's face. "That's...where you...killed my parents."

"It is."

"But how do you know your wand is still there? Don't you think someone took it? It's been almost 10 years."

"I trust my wand to be loyal and clever enough to conceal itself until its master returns for it."

"That's awfully considerate of it."

"Indeed."

"But...how do we get there? By train? Bus?"

"No, you will enlist the help of your Aunt. I will leave the details to you."

Pride swelled in Harry's chest. Tom really _did_ trust him.

"Speak to me once you have secured our transportation."

"What...now?"

"There is no time like the present, Harry."

Harry sighed as he placed the mirror back on his bed and quietly made his way downstairs, his silent footfalls fading into the stillness of the house. Dudley was away at summer camp, and Vernon was on a business trip in France, so it was just him and Aunt Petunia inhabiting Number 4 Privet Drive at the moment, bestowing upon the suburban domicile a new level of pristine tranquility, as per Aunt Petunia's preference. Harry preferred it that way, too - he'd come to the conclusion that his childhood would have been much simpler and pain free were it just him and Aunt Petunia. He much preferred her to her rotund husband and son - she was quieter, and seemed to dislike him a lot less than the male Dursleys did.

She was also more inclined to take the time to do the housework on her own, when it was just her and Harry.

It was nearly noon, and the sound of carrots being chopped vibrated in the air as he passed by a familiar cupboard under the stairs and stealthily entered the kitchen.

"Aunt Petunia?"

The woman frantically spun around, startled, and pointed the stainless steel knife in her hands straight at Harry as her pale blue eyes went wide in fear.

Harry sighed sadly. He didn't like how afraid of him Petunia had become...he found it kind of hurtful, to be honest. He'd never done anything to hurt her...he'd set Vernon's belongings on fire a few times, and had pushed the larger man back when he tried to whip him with his belt, but he'd always made sure not to harm his Aunt...not that it did any good. Honestly, he'd never treated any of the Dursleys half as bad as they treated him; he didn't understand why they seemed to find his behaviour unexpected and ill-deserved.

 _"Expelliarmus."_

The knife flew out of Aunt Petunia's hand and into his, causing the woman to pale drastically.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Aunt Petunia. I just have a little request."

"Wh-wh-what kind of request?" she stammered, eyes trained on the knife he now held loosely in his own hand.

"I...want to go visit my parents...their grave."

The woman's eyes widened. "Their grave?" she whispered.

Harry nodded.

"Th-that's...a long drive."

"I know."

"F-f-four hours."

"I know it's a lot to ask, but it's...really important to me. I just need a ride. You don't even need to leave the car. And I promise I won't bother you after this."

The woman exhaled shakily. "When?"

"Now?"

She nodded slowly. "Fifteen minutes."

Harry smiled gratefully. Things were so much easier with Aunt Petunia.

* * *

 _"Pink elephants and lemonade, dear Jessie_

 _Hear the laughter running through the love parade..."_

Two hours later, Harry was sitting in the back seat of Aunt Petunia's car reading reading _The Art of War_ whilst Madonna's dulcet tones emanated from the speakers, caressed by static. Neither Harry nor his Aunt were listening to the vaguely glitching radio, so it was little more than ambient noise, doing away with the need for Harry and his Aunt to exchange words. She was no doubt still terrified by their earlier conversation, and he wasn't going to apologize, though he did still feel really terrible about the whole thing.

 _"Candy kisses and a sunny day, dear Jessie_

 _See the roses raining on the love parade..."_

Tom had been very amused, of course; his friend did not even try to stifle his pleased smirk when Harry remorsefully discussed the exchange with him. It was always like this with Tom; the things that brightened the days of the dark lord simultaneously made Harry feel incredibly guilty, which made Harry's desire to impress him very counterproductive in his ongoing quest to maintain his mental health.

 _"Close your eyes and you'll be there_

 _Where the mermaids sing as they comb their hair..._ "

He yawned, sleep starting to creep on the edges of his vision.

 _"Like a fountain of gold you can never grow old_

 _Where dreams are made, your love parade..."_

His life was so complicated.

* * *

Tom gripped his yew and phoenix feather wand in his right hand, relishing in the way the dark magic danced about it like decadent static.

The man's face was cold, eyes dull and dead. They were his eyes, set upon a face that was nearly his face, aged by a few decades. A lesser man might have been been cowed, staring into the face of his dead father, but Tom was not.

Tom Riddle Senior was dead. Tom Riddle Junior had killed him. That was all. There was nothing more to it.

Harry jerked awake, tears in his eyes.

* * *

Godric's Hollow was a quaint little village, Harry observed as he wandered through the streets unnoticed – Tom had insisted that he use the disillusionment charm as soon as he left Aunt Petunia's car. Apparently there were quite a few witches and wizards in the area, and they couldn't afford to be recognized.

The cobbled streets and stone buildings alluded to a distant past, deeply contrasting the asphalt and cookie-cutter houses of Little Whinging and stirring Harry's imagination in the most eerie of ways. Did his parents once wander the same path he was on? He smiled at the thought, staring lazily at the sky. The sun was obscured by clouds, that day, casting a vague and subtle glow on the medieval architecture. Godric's Hollow, he thought, could be described as...subdued - an old place full of old stories kept by old people. It was peaceful, quiet, and he rather liked it.

There was nothing particularly special about the place, and Harry was about to cease his explorations and go straight to the Potters' cottage when he noticed something odd in the town square - a strange shape standing in the centre of street, the air about it warped with a delicate sort of magic. As he approached, it became clear to him that he was looking at a statue – of a man and a woman embracing, with a young infant smiling contently in their arms. The man looked eerily familiar, with messy hair and glasses framing his softly smiling face; there was something about the height of his cheekbones and the shape of his nose and chin...

...that looked very much like what he saw in the mirror every day.

Harry's eyes widened in shock as he ran toward the statue.

"Mum...dad..."

Unbidden, tears gathered in his eyes – was this what they looked like? Were these people his family?

He felt a deep aching in his chest, and suddenly he became very aware of Tom's presence in his mind. Tom...Lord Voldemort, the man who murdered these happy people in their home. This was _his family_ , right here, in front of him, this stone monument of what had been taken from him remembering them while he did not. It was war, Harry knew that. It was nothing personal – Tom didn't do personal. But it still hurt. And had been times lately – like now – when he could not help but wonder if he was a bad person for forgiving the man that took his parents away.

He looked up at his mother's face, through tears, and all he could do is marvel at how beautiful she was, and how serene her smile was as she stared into her baby's – Harry's – eyes. He could see her love for him written all over her face - the love that killed her, and gave him life. She looked so...young...innocent...almost naive in a way. He wondered if she was still able to look at him the same way after she heard the prophecy. Her eyes, her smile, her posture - they all pointed to the fact that she loved her child with all her heart. Would she still feel the same way, knowing what her love had wrought?

And then there was his father, with his arm protectively wrapped around them both – what would he think of Harry now? The man was what Tom called an auror - he had dedicated his life to fighting dark wizards, to saving people, while his son consorted with a murderer. Would he still love Harry knowing the things he'd done?

 _Harry, we mustn't linger. You can only maintain the charm for so long._

A shot of fury ran down his spine when he heard Tom's thoughts in his mind, and he felt the air heat up slightly around him. As usual, Tom was just looking out for him...but the rage was there nonetheless, even if only momentarily. How dare Tom deprive him of more than he already had? Hadn't Lord Voldemort taken enough from the Potters? This moment belonged to Harry...and Tom had no right to interfere.

Except...that didn't matter. As usual, Tom was right.

He sighed. "I know."

Reluctantly, he walked away from the statue, relishing in the feeling of something ripping apart in his chest as he turned away from the only likeness of his parents that he'd ever known. He grew numb as he continued down the cobblestone street, listening to Tom's faint directions in his mind, and, as far as he knew, it was not long before he found himself in front of the Potter Cottage.

It was a sobering experience.

One side of the house was completely untouched, and could have been any abandoned house, blending in easily with the aesthetic of Godric's Hollow. But the other half...something twisted inside him as he surveyed the damage done by the killing curse that had rebounded off of him. It was like a fire had broken out in one of the rooms, and, while contained in one half of the house, had ravished it mercilessly.

Transfixed by the sight before him, Harry barely heard himself as he whispered _"alohomora"_ to the gate in front of him.

The flowers gilding the sides of the cobblestone path to the cottage had long since died away, withered or strangled by weeds. He wondered what kind of flowers grew there, once - they were now too shriveled for him to tell. Did his mother choose them herself? Did she enjoy gardening? Had she lived...would Harry be tending this garden instead of Aunt Petunia's, his loving mother at his side?

Harry was in a daze as he entered the house – it was like stepping into a single moment of the past, the interior of the cottage almost mocking the loss belied by the candid normalcy of the scene before him. It was as if someone had frozen a moment in time and let it wither slowly away, preserving the shapes while dimming the colours, perpetuating a moment in a life while draining the life itself down to nothing. Dishes still sat in the sink, and toys still lay on the living room floor. Shoes - a pair of trainers, work boots, and dress shoes, accompanied by small leather boots, pumps, and Mary Janes - were lined up against the wall on the left, a dust covered umbrella hanging above them with an array of autumn coats.

Harry could practically see the moving shapes of the previous inhabitants – his family – flitting in and out of reality. A mother was making soup in the kitchen while a father helped his son build a fortress out of pillows on the floor of the living room; a family was sitting together smiling at the kitchen table; a baby boy lay sleeping in the arms of his mother as his father arrived home from work with a smile. That was _his_ life, once.

He shook his head. He wasn't there to reminisce on things he couldn't remember. He had a job to do.

So slowly, he made his way up to the stairs to the nursery, the location of which was obvious to him; it was the epicentre of the cottage's wounds.

He nearly stumbled and fell upon entering, almost physically startled by the cold wave of eerie nostalgia that washed over him. There was a crib...toys on the floor...pillows...walls painted with baby blue paint intermingled with scorch marks...

Did he recognize this? He couldn't tell whether it felt familiar, or if he just wanted it to feel familiar. He'd slept here, once. This was _his_ room, before he had been orphaned and shoved in a cupboard. This bed, these toys - they had been his. Given to him by loving parents. It was all his, until Tom stepped foot in it...

He grimaced. He needed to get him self together.

Taking a deep breath, he knelt down and peered under the crib, and sure enough, there lay a thirteen-and-a-half inch yew wand, sleeping inconspicuously on the carpeted floor. Harry could feel Tom's glee in his mind as he slipped the wand into his backpack.

Well, that was...anticlimactic. He shook his head. He'd completed his mission. That was all that mattered.

Except...it wasn't. No, there was one last thing he needed to do - for his parents...for himself.

"Tom...I can't leave yet. There's something I need to do."

* * *

"Hi mum, dad...it's nice to meet you."

He stared at the modest white marble gravestone in front of him, nestled in the corner of an old church graveyard, brushing aside the branches of the holly bush framing it delicately.

 _Ouch._

He winced as he caught his finger on one of the sharp leaves, but didn't let the pain stop him from continuing his task. When the stone was clear he moved his hands over to the silent epitaph carved therein, tracing the letters slowly, leaving specks of his blood behind in the crevices.

 _'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is Death'_

"I like your gravestone...it's...inspiring. I wonder how one goes about destroying Death..."

He smiled sadly. "But I guess you wouldn't know..."

He took a deep breath. "I wish I could remember you. I don't even remember what you look like. I wish...I knew you well enough to grieve for you properly.

"Tom told me a bit about you, though. Tom is my best friend, you see. I really think you wouldn't approve...he's the reason I can't remember you after all...but he looks after me, and I owe him a lot. He's not a good person, and I know that, but he's good to me, and that's what counts, right?

"He told me that you were really good at your job, dad. You were an auror, right? Tom said that even though you had just finished your training, you already had a reputation. You caught bad wizards and brought them to justice – I think that's brilliant...you're just like the superheroes in the comic books I read. Like Batman. Tom says you fought bravely, and died with honour – that you didn't hesitate to sacrifice yourself for mom and me. You would have been a great dad, I think. And I'm proud to be your son.

"Apparently I take after you, mom. Tom insults you a lot...he calls you a mud- ...you know what, never mind. I think he's just a bit sore about how you managed to outsmart and outmagic him."

Harry winced as a sharp pain pulsed in his forehead.

"Hehe...I guess I was right. Anyway, Tom says I'm a fast learner, and that if I work hard, I might be able to hold a candle to you someday. It's a lot of pressure, but it...makes me feel happy...like I'll amount to something one day, you know? He says that you were a 'formidable witch' and that you were his most 'dangerous foe.' You don't know him very well, so I guess you won't understand this...but that's probably the highest complement you could ever receive. I'm grateful for having inherited at least a little bit of your talent.

"Tom says that you were adept at soul magic...he said you researched some pretty dangerous magic to save me...you risked everything, and he said that it was your death that kept me alive. I don't know the details, and I don't think he does either, yet, but I want you to know that the little bits of your magic that I have inside of me won't go to waste. I know I'll probably disappoint you...I'll probably do things that will make you sad. But I promise – I _will_ make you proud one day. I'll become a great wizard, and honour the sacrifices you and dad made so that I could live. Your deaths won't be in vain...I won't let anyone take away what you've given me. I'm going to survive...and more than that, I'm going to live a life worth living. I promise.

"And in advance...I'm sorry."

* * *

The drive home was silent. Aunt Petunia didn't dare say a word, and Harry didn't trust his voice – he didn't want her to hear him in his moment of weakness. He would be lying if he said he didn't shed a few tears on the long drive back.

It was getting dark by the time they arrived back at Number 4 Privet drive, but despite the time and the long day Harry'd had, he'd lost his appetite and was eager to disappear into his bedroom; so after a quick thank you and goodnight, Harry trudged up to his bedroom, exhausted from sitting still for so long. He took out Tom's mirror as soon as he collapsed on his bed.

"So...you have your wand now. What are we going to do with it?" He could not help but notice that his voice sounded more than a little dead in his ears.

Apparently Tom had noticed too, because he hesitated before he answered, just for a moment. "Apparate. Rest well tonight; first thing tomorrow I will apparate us halfway across the country. It will require a non-trivial sum of our energy."

"Halfway across the country? Where are we going?"

"Spinner's End."

"Where's that?"

"Cokeworth."

Harry scowled. "And where's _that_?"

"Not far from Manchester."

"Oh. What's in Cokeworth?"

"Severus Snape."

Harry blinked. "What's a Snape?"

* * *

...yes, I did check to see if I recognized any songs that charted in 1990 in the UK. I thought the Madonna one was appropriately ironic.

Thanks for reading, and please review!


	10. Severus Snape (Part 1)

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter...well, that would be very nice indeed, wouldn't it?

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Severus Snape (Part 1)**

Few people knew this, but Severus Snape was most definitely a morning person – one of the few times a small smile could be seen gracing his lips was around the hour of six o'clock in the morning, as he sat at his oak and rosewood kitchen table watching the crimson-tinted sun rise. There was something about the delicate bite in the crisp air, the soft light, and the stillness of the gold-gilded world around him that made being in that moment seem...worthwhile.

He was hard pressed to smile that morning, however – September 1st was right around the corner, and once it came, he would have spend another year of his miserable life lecturing ungrateful, talentless brats who never ceased to amaze him by their stupidity. Ah, Hogwarts. What was once a haven away from his drunken bastard of a father and morbidly depressed mother had become the bane of his existence, and that was saying a lot - his existence wasn't a particularly happy one to begin with.

He sighed deeply as he sipped his cup of Darjeeling. Less than one more week of peace left; only a few more days to work on his most recent research project. Idly, he picked up the notes he had left on the table the night before, staring unhappily at the numbers he'd written down.

 _Adder's fork – 20 minutes_

 _Eye of frog – 17 minutes_

 _Claw of weasel – 12 minutes_

All unsatisfactory. He needed the reaction time to rest well under 10 minutes (preferably under 5, but who was he kidding?), or else the essence of wormwood would end up spoiling and losing its potency, making the whole concoction little more than vile-smelling sludge. 10 minutes was a small window for a compound so stable, however. Indeed, this most recent project of his was a true challenge, and had the potential to hold his attention for quite a while. It was a shame...it was likely that he'd have to put it on hold; he never could quite think straight with Monday morning potions lectures hanging over his head. Unless...perhaps he needed an acidic neutralizing agent...essence of rose? Bluebell seeds?

He started as three sharp knocks sounded on his front door.

He scowled. Who could possibly be at his door at this hour? Really, who _was_ that rude? He certainly wasn't expecting anyone. He had half a mind to hex whoever was waiting on the other side of his door. Honestly, they deserved it...

He took a deep breath. Come now, Severus, he told himself. It wouldn't do to start hexing muggles. He didn't need that on his record. After all, if he was going to be caught hexing someone, it was going to be those blasted Weasley twins.

He shook his head. Oh well, best get this over with.

When he opened the door, he was expecting to see a postman, perhaps, or a delivery man of some sort. The last thing he was expecting was to find a little boy standing on his doorstep. The child was dressed in loose-hanging, ratty clothing, beneath which he appeared to be quite bony and very much on the small side – he couldn't be older than 8 or 9 years old. He frowned. What was a child so young doing at his door, alone, at 6:30 am in the morning?

He was about to shoo the little cretin away when it looked up at him, an action that nearly caused him to gasp and stumble backward; for staring up at him through a messy black fringe, behind a broken pair of glasses, glowed two bright green eyes, a curious glimmer lighting them intensely. Two very familiar eyes. Eyes he didn't ever expect to see again. No...this couldn't possibly be...

"Hello, are you Mr. Severus Snape?" the boy asked without prelude, and apparently completely unintimidated by him.

Quickly, he snapped out of his shock. Green eyes, especially of this brilliant shade, were rare, but this was no doubt just another child, another insufferable spawn of one of his neighbours, most likely bothering him at this indecent hour on account of a dare or some such similar drivel.

"Yes," he drawled slowly, allowing his voice to darken in the way that always made his students pale in fright.

The boy, however, seemed completely unfazed. "Oh, good. My name's Harry Potter. May I come in?"

Severus's brain just about shut down completely at that. So much for his 'just another child' theory. "Harry...Potter?"

"Yes sir, that's me. Can I come in?"

Still too stunned to speak, he settled for stepping out of the doorway and allowing the young child to walk into his house.

He'd just allowed a Potter into his house.

"You have a lovely home Mr. Snape."

Severus stared at him.

"It's quite modest, and rather homey," the boy continued, rambling a bit (for, though fear was curiously absent from the child's countenance, nervous excitement was not), "Say, you wouldn't happen to be related to any Waynes, would you? I think it might be your general silhouette, but you rather remind me of -"

"Mr...Potter."

The boy paused in his nervous rant and simultaneous inspection of his kitchen. "Yes sir?"

"If you do not have any pressing business here...I'd ask you to kindly _get out._ "

The boy looked up at him with...understanding? "Tom said you wouldn't be too happy to see me. He said you didn't like my dad too much. But that's ok. Tom says I take after my mother. He said you l-"

The child winced and rubbed his forehead, falling silent

Severus froze. The boy knew...about him and James Potter. The boy knew who he was. How? Hadn't Albus said he was living with muggles?

"Mr. Snape?"

Now that he looked more closely at the boy, he had to agree. He _did_ take after his mother. His eyes...they were identical to Lily's. They held the same earnestness and cleverness, the same kindness. His beloved Lily's beautiful eyes...looking at him from James Potter's face. It was maddening.

"Why...are you here?" He decided to go with straight-forward.

"Tom said that you could help us."

That name again. "And who is this...Tom?"

"He's a friend of yours."

Friend? Severus had few 'friends' (if any), and most definitely none named Tom.

"He said you might not recognize the name," he sighed, "Perhaps you should speak to him yourself."

Severus was about to impatiently inquire as to where exactly this 'Tom' was, when the boy closed his eyes, seemingly frowning in concentration. He watched curiously as the boy's breath hitched and he stumbled over, before straightening his posture into a stance far more confident and rigid than what it had been. When the boy opened his eyes again, it was no longer Lily's vivacious green looking up at him – it was instead a very familiar crimson.

"Hello, Severus."

He stepped back, his heart hammering in his chest. "Look, Potter, I don't know what you're playing at, but -"

 _"Crucio._ "

He gasped, shock penetrating every fibre of his being as he fell to his knees, the sensation of white-hot knives slicing through him infecting every inch of flesh in his body. He bit his lip, to keep from crying out, but just as he started to taste copper in his mouth, it all stopped.

He looked up to find a malicious smile on the boy's face and a gleeful spark lighting his eyes. Such familiar eyes. Singularly unique eyes.

No, he told himself, no - it's not possible. The Dark Lord was _dead_...dead, along with his beloved Lily. Everyone knew that - it had been that way for nearly a a decade...

But...the Headmaster _was_ quite convinced that the dark lord's demise was only temporary. So perhaps... perhaps it was not so impossible. That and...there was no way a 10 year old Harry Potter would be able to cast a wandless cruciatus curse without breaking a sweat. That _definitely_ wasn't possible.

 _"Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate."_

Really, the question was, what was _more_ implausible? Harry Potter showing up out of nowhere with the uncanny ability to cast the cruciatus curse without a wand, or the Dark Lord possessing the child? Well, when he phrased it like that, the answer was obvious.

"M-my lord?"

The cruel smile did not leave Harry Potter's countenance.

"I...I don't understand...h-how...?"

"Perhaps another time, Severus. Right now, I require your skills."

He quickly bowed his head. "Anything, my lord."

He was grateful to have an excuse to look away; it was eerie – scratch that, downright disturbing – seeing those red eyes where Lily's had been a moment ago. Even more disconcerting was seeing that familiar, deceptively serene smile that had often graced the Dark Lord's face emanating from the countenance of his old enemy.

"Ah, Severus, faithful as ever. I will not waste any time. You do recall the potion you were working on shortly before my...demise?"

He nodded slowly, understanding slowly dawning on him. "Yes, my lord...I had called it the...Injicio Potion."

"Yes, that is the one. As I recall, it was nearly finished."

"After your...untimely demise, I finished the project on my own."

The boy...Dark Lord...looked at him curiously. "Oh?"

"Curiosity, my lord, got the better of me," he replied shakily.

"Ah Severus, ever the perfect scholar. It is just as well, for I require no less than 12 vials of this potion. I trust this will not be a problem."

"My lord, may I ask -"

"No, you may not. You will show me to your laboratory immediately."

Stiffly, Severus rose to his feet and silently gestured for the boy – no, Dark Lord – to follow him to the cellar he had converted into a potions laboratory.

His mind was spinning. Just minutes ago, Harry Potter had showed up at his front door. Harry Potter, who was, apparently, being possessed by the Dark Lord. So Albus had been right all along – he _had_ returned; in the body of Harry Potter no less. Was the boy dead? No, of course not; he was standing there in front of him just a moment ago. He believed he was not wrong in his initial impression that it had, in fact, been Harry Potter standing on his doorstep. No, the Dark Lord's presence did not emerge until the boy suggested that he 'talk to' his 'friend Tom', of that he was quite sure. Somehow, the boy knew he was being possessed and was...at peace with it? The child seemed very aware of what was going on, and completely content with the whole affair. Something was very, very wrong with the whole situation. Well, of course something was wrong (after all, a 10 year old boy was being possessed by the Dark Lord), but something was wrong with how terribly wrong the whole thing was. The Dark Lord had somehow tricked the Potter boy into willfully and knowingly sharing his body with him, and now, the Dark Lord was walking around freely under the guise of Harry Potter. Albus _needed_ to know about this...he needed to get away...without breaking his cover...

"I believe," he said nervously as he opened the door to his laboratory, "That I have all the ingredients I need here."

The Dark Lord raised his – rather, Harry Potter's – eyebrows with a subtle smile. "As I recall, this particular potion required some rare and...less than legal ingredients."

"Indeed, my Lord." He hoped his uninformative answer would not be taken as insolence.

Thankfully, the dark lord fell silent as he began to retrieve ingredients from his cupboards.

"How long will it take to brew?" The question sounded so innocent coming from the mouth of a child.

"Around two hours, my Lord. If you would like to return in two hours time, it will be ready then." That would give him enough time to contact the Headmaster.

"No, I will remain here...and you are not to leave my sight until the potion is finished."

Of course, the Dark Lord didn't trust him so quickly. The man had always been a bit mad, but he was never a fool. Certainly never a trusting fool. "Yes, my Lord."

Had his situation not been so treacherous, it would have been comical watching the Dark Lord clamber onto one of the tall chairs that stood across from his brewing station. But, as it were, it was not.

"So," the Dark Lord began in his newly acquired childish voice as he began to nervously dice elder roots, "What has been occupying your attentions of late, Severus?"

Well, there was no point in lying. "Teaching, my lord, at Hogwarts."

The Dark Lord didn't look too surprised at that. "Did Dumbledore give you that position after you went to him for help? After you betrayed me?"

He immediately ceased his chopping. Oh no...he was dead. He was going to die. The Dark Lord _knew._ He knew all along. Was the potion a ruse? Did he come here with the intent of killing him? "M-my lord?" he breathed out hoarsely.

"Oh come now, Severus, let's not pretend. I threatened the life of the woman you loved. You would have been a fool to trust me to spare dear, sweet Lily Potter, and I would have been a fool to expect you not to betray me for her. So that leaves us here; you, having betrayed me, and I, very well aware of your betrayal," the Dark Lord said easily, as though it were the most simple matter in the world.

He really didn't know what to say to that, and nearly had a heart attack when he heard boyish cackles coming from the small figure in front of him.

"Oh Severus, do not worry yourself. I won't kill you...yet. Your servitude and loyalty, should they be given once again freely, of your own accord, will buy you time. Plenty of time, I imagine, if you...fail to disappoint me."

He paused for a moment, before a smirk lifted the corner of his mouth.

"I'm sure you will find it in your heart to overcome the hatred for me that has no doubt festered in your heart all these years. After all, I really did show Lily Potter mercy, I gave her the chance to step aside...she just...refused my kindness," he finished with a cruel grin.

Severus grit his teeth silently, as a strange emotion akin to both anger and grief coursed through him.

"So calm yourself, Severus, and brew me my potion, and I may yet show you mercy."

He closed his eyes, calming himself as he reached for his bottle of essence of wormwood.

For a while, he was allowed to go about his task in peace; indeed, had nearly finished preparing ingredients when his lord's now childish voice spoke up once again.

"Severus, I have another task for you."

He looked up from his crushed raven's beak cautiously.

"Harry would like you to tell him about his mother."

And here he was thinking this day could not get any worse.

"M-my Lord, I'm not sure that -"

"Come now, Severus, indulge the boy. The poor child can't remember his mother...as you well know. Every child deserves to know their mother, do you not think so? It is the least he could ask of you...I am sure you haven't forgotten the part you played in the tragedy that was the murder of Lily and James Potter."

"My lord, is the boy..."

"He lies dormant inside this body, right now. He can hear and see everything that I do, however. I assure you, your words will not fall on deaf ears."

So the child...listened on as the Dark Lord spoke so mockingly of his dead mother. He could not help but feel sorry for James Potter's son. Merlin help him. He was feeling sorry for the spawn of James Potter.

"Severus, he's waiting."

He sighed shakily. "I met Lily Evans in the summer of..." He paused, suddenly unsure of himself. What does one say about a mother to a child that holds no memories of her? How could he possibly do justice to his old friend when her son knew nothing of her? What could he say about the woman he loved...and then betrayed? Lily deserved to be known by her child, that much was certain...but she deserved so much better than what he could give.

He wished he could paint a picture worthy of his beloved Lily, he wished...

"Severus, don't tell me you've forgotten about her already."

Oh, of course he hadn't – but it was too painful to bring those memories to the surface. Explaining to the boy who his mother was to him...would be like ripping his still beating heart out of his chest and crushing it slowly.

He heard the Dark Lord sigh. "Dear me, Harry, I think we broke him...not to worry, though – we can put him back together... _imperio_."

"Now, Severus, be a good boy and brew me my potion while you recite the history of one Lily Potter nee Evans. In the fullest detail."

So that's exactly what he did. He tried to distance himself from the words leaving his nearly quivering lips, but he could not entirely shut out the sound of his retelling of the life of Lily Evans. He didn't want to hear it, not again. He wanted to shut it out. He wanted to forget. But forgetting her would be tantamount to burning that very same heart being ripped out of his chest – it was an act of dying, and he was not ready to die just yet. He still had work to do.

But then again...

If the Dark Lord already had the boy in his grasp, what more could he do? Albus was quite clear that the boy was the only one who could defeat the Dark Lord, so if that was out of the question...what hope was there? No, perhaps his work was finished – perhaps there was no one left to protect. In which case...

He would welcome the death his former master cast upon him. There was no greater purpose, no profound moral, no prospect of happiness, no future life – there was only the light behind him and the present darkness. He'd had his chance to be happy, and he'd squandered it. And now, there was nothing left. It was poor penance for what he had done, but perhaps being murdered by the hand of the boy whose mother he loved and then betrayed would absolve him of but a portion of his guilt before the end. Yes, he would welcome death, and the irony that wrought it.

* * *

" _Imbuere,"_ the Dark Lord intoned, as he pointed his wand at the shimmering blue substance bubbling in his cauldron.

He could not help the surprise that came over his face when he saw that the wand was, indeed, the Dark Lord's own wand.

His surprise did not go unnoticed.

"Ah, yes, my wand. Harry was kind enough to fetch it for me when we visited his parents just the other day."

Disgust coiled in his stomach as he obediently bottled the dangerous elixir he'd just brewed. He knew that the Dark Lord was not a kind man...but to play with a parentless child, giving him the barest taste of what had been stolen from him...it was cruel. Beyond cruel. Harry Potter may have been the heir of James Potter, but he didn't deserve to watch the grave of his parents defiled by the presence of their murderer, or listen for hours to stories of his mother told by the man who had betrayed her – he certainly did not deserve to have his very body and future stolen from the same man...monster that had taken everything else from him. It was becoming harder and harder to resent this unfortunate child.

His thoughts were interrupted when the Dark Lord, in the boy's small body, stood on his toes to gather the vials he'd laid on his workstation and placed them in the small red backpack he was carrying with him.

When he finished the delicate process of packing the 12 vials away, two crimson eyes turned to him once again. "Lord Voldemort thanks you, Severus. Your..." a shark-like grin split the Dark Lord's face, "...loyalty will not be forgotten."

"Thank you, my lord." He took a deep breath. "Should you require anything else -"

"Indeed, there is one last thing I require of you. Kneel."

Severus dropped to his knees without a second thought.

 _This is it_ , he thought, _This is the end._

In a strange fit of appropriate irony and just desserts, the voice of the son of Lily Evans and James Potter was about to enunciate the words that would mark his end...at long last.

"You have served me well. Even so, I cannot have you announcing my return just yet."

Wait, what?

"My lord, I would never -" he began on reflex.

"I know, I know. Alas, it cannot be helped. _Obliviate_."

* * *

Harry sighed sadly as he left Spinner's End behind him. He wished Tom wouldn't have wiped Mr. Snape's memories. He would have liked to have made another friend.

* * *

Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	11. Miss Riddle

**Disclaimer:** Oh, that I owned anything of value :'(

 **AN1:** There are a few things in this chapter that I borrowed from Harry Potter and the Arcana...mostly descriptions and the like. Nothing major. So yeah, I plagiarized myself. It's likely to happen again, just because it saves time on translating my visual impressions to words.

 **AN2:** A couple of people asked if the Obliviate in the last chapter worked, and if so, how Snape explains his missing ingredients. I imagine Voldemort would have replaced the memory - maybe he made Snape think that he'd gotten curious and reminiscent and tried to brew the Injicio potion, but something went wrong and he had to dump it out. That's plausible, right? If it isn't...just call this a plot hole. I'm allowed one or two, right? Anyway, Snape doesn't remember, and he might be a bit confused, but he doesn't really suspect anything, and will be technically meeting Harry for the first time at Hogwarts.

 **AN3:** I need help! I'm currently planning out a few conversations that take place during Harry's first Christmas at Hogwarts, and I need to know, do people in the UK ever exchange presents on Christmas Eve? My German family does, but my English family doesn't. And they're both a few generations Canadian now so I just don't know...

Anyway, it's technically Sunday, and this is finished, so I'm posting now. Please enjoy :)

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Miss Riddle**

"Miss Jenkins!"

"Oh, hello Harry, what can I help you with today?"

Harry smiled nervously at her. "I...I baked some cookies for you," he said, revealing from behind his back a small plate of chocolate chip cookies.

"Oh Harry, you're such a sweet boy," the kindly primary school teacher said, gingerly taking the small plate of cookies out of his hand. "Chocolate chip! My favourite!"

"D'you wanna try one?"

"Oh, of course! I'm sure _one_ won't spoil my dinner." She winked at him.

 _Take the one on the top. The one on the top. The one with five chocolate chips. The one on the top._

Predictably, the woman did just that, and Harry smiled sheepishly, inwardly grimacing. Miss Laura Jenkins, a 21 year old strawberry blonde with freckles and a penchant for polka-dotted dresses, was one of the few muggles he didn't mind associating with – she was new to the school, and had yet to hear all the incriminating stories his teachers and classmates liked to tell about him. As was such, she's the only one who would trust Harry enough to ingest anything he'd touched. Her mistake.

Tom had quickly caught on to the woman's innocent and trusting nature, and had immediately singled her out as a target. A target for what, he hadn't been sure of, until Tom instructed him to put his culinary skills to use the day before.

"Bake the most unassuming of treats."

So, given those vague instructions, he'd settled on chocolate chip cookies. The next step had been to coat the top of of one of them with the potion he and Tom had retrieved from Mr. Snape's house not a month ago. After that came the tricky bit, the part Harry had been practicing for for a long time - and this was the important part, since there was only one cookie that was tainted by the potion (they couldn't afford to waste it, after all). Apparently, his magic was strong enough that he could...aid the thought processes of muggles, or at least, that's how Tom put it. Harry knew he was just being polite for his sake.

Apparently muggles were especially 'suggestible' and were prone to all sorts of magical coercion. Harry hadn't known whether to be thrilled or horrified when Tom had told him a few weeks back that if he concentrated really, really well, he could convince unsuspecting muggles to do what he wanted without saying a word; all he had to do was carefully replicate the sensations he had experienced when Tom had said the word _imperio_ at Mr. Snape's house. Tom said that he would not be able to perform the curse (a fancy, complicated bit of magic, it was...not to mention, it was called Unforgivable for a reason), but he'd be able to reproduce some of the effects, if only barely. Thus, long before he had known anything about what he'd taken to calling 'Tom's Mysterious Cookie Scheme', he had been practicing (mostly on Dudley and the postman) his ability to _persuade_ Miss Jenkins to eat the right one.

She would be the first person to ever ingest Severus Snape's Injicio Potion, which was, apparently, harmless, for the most part anyway. Harry really hoped Tom was telling the truth on this one. He would feel bad about hurting the only muggle that was nice to him.

The Injicio Potion was an extraordinarily complex piece of magical ingenuity, and Harry wouldn't pretend he understood a fraction of the theory behind it (Tom had tried to explain it, but ended up complaining about how simple his childish brain was), but from what he could tell, the main purpose of the translucent blue potion (which, luckily, was effective in small doses and could be administered with food or drink) was to create a temporary vessel for Tom. There were two halves to the Injicio Potion; the first was the potion itself, and the second the _imbuere_ spell Tom had cast on it. The idea was that the potion, which was through the spell imbued with what Tom called his magical fingerprint, created a fake copy of his magical core in the consumer of the potion, which allowed him to temporarily anchor his consciousness in the consumer's body, which he'd, for all intents and purposes, occupy for the 6 hours following consumption. Long story short, Tom was going to possess Miss Jenkins.

Apparently, having the body of a ten year old wizard that happened to be Harry Potter put something of a damper on Tom's current plans – which he still refused to divulge – and while he promised Harry he wasn't planning anything big in particular, certain arrangements needed to be made, and for that, he needed to look the part of an anonymous, responsible adult.

"Do they...taste good, Miss Jenkins?"

The young woman smiled weakly. "Yes, Harry...I'm just...just...not...feeling...quite...quite..."

And that was it.

As soon as the woman lost consciousness, a terrible pain erupted from Harry's forehead and he dropped to his knees. Thankfully, it only lasted a moment.

"Well, that was...interesting."

Harry stumbled to his feet. "Speak for yourself."

The Dark Lord, now in the body of his very pretty primary school teacher, promptly ignored him. "My wand, Harry."

Harry reached into his backpack and retrieved the yew wand, handing it to Tom who shivered with pleasure at its touch. Immediately, he pointed it at the pencils lying on Miss Jenkins's desk, and they transformed into a pile of silver coins.

"Sickles," he said by way of explanation.

Harry nodded, awed – so this was transfiguration! He'd never seen Tom transfigure anything before, and he couldn't wait to learn how to do it himself. All the things he could do...imagine, being able to influence matter itself! Was it on the molecular level? Atomic? Quantum? Which particles were changing, and how? So much to learn, and when he did...

"Look at me," Tom commanded, stirring Harry out of his daydreams of becoming a world renowned transfigurer (was that a word?).

Harry did so, and Tom pointed his wand at him, muttering some words under his breath.

"Glamour?" Harry guessed.

Tom nodded. "You're a blonde as well now."

"Marvelous."

"Now, come along. We have much to do."

Tom stood up, but stumbled a bit, glaring at his feet.

"They're called heels," Harry put in.

Tom's red eyes narrowed. Apparently, while he was, essentially, inhabiting Miss Jenkins's body, he still couldn't get rid of those eerie red eyes of his.

"I am aware." He sat down, elegant as ever, and proceeded to de-shoe himself. "There," he said, standing up again.

"You're...not going to wear any shoes?"

"I have no need of them."

"We're going to London. Don't you think you might get Miss Jenkins's feet all cut up and bruised?"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Irrelevant. Now, come along."

Obediently, Harry followed him out of the school and to the side of the street. Once they reached the sidewalk, Tom stuck his wand out toward the street.

"Umm...what are you doing?"

"Hailing our transportation."

* * *

Harry _loved_ the Knight Bus. He'd always wanted to go to an amusement park, but the Dursleys never let him come along. Everything about them seemed so...spectacular, like any kid's dreams come true. The popcorn, the candy, Ferris wheels, _roller coasters_ – for years, he'd dreamed about riding a roller coaster one day. He figured it was likely that he'd never get the chance, but the Knight Bus was almost as good a ride, he thought.

Tom, however, was less than impressed, and assured Harry that the only reason they were 'hailing public transportation' was that apparation was too taxing.

It was a short affair, the journey from Surrey to London, and before Harry knew it, they were dropped off in front of a pub that went by the name "The Leaky Cauldron."

Harry frowned. "That's a bit conspicuous, isn't it?"

Tom smirked, Miss Jenkins's lip gloss shimmering as he did, but said nothing. Instead, he took Harry by the hand and led him toward the heavy wooden door to the pub. He paused, and looked at Harry with a strangely soft smile on his face.

"Welcome, Harry, to the Wizarding World."

Upon opening the door, they found themselves in a dingy old pub, dimly lit by several lanterns in the corners and hanging from iron frames chained to the ceiling. The furniture was of worn wood, polish and paint fading, and the walls covered with paintings and odd images of all sorts. Only a few patrons sat at the tables, off in a far corner, some enjoying what appeared to be average pub fair and others sipping from mugs of some unknown liquid. It was not obtrusively loud, nor was it quiet - it was, in fact, a kind of cheery, albeit subdued.

There was something very...antique about the place, like an old pub from a Dickens novel or the Prancing Pony from the Lord of the Rings. Something about it was rather fantastic, too, he noted as he caught sight of the paintings of dragons and knights and odd little creatures whose names he did not know decorating the walls. And then there were the patrons; most quite old, dressed in quirky, archaic clothing, so...idiosyncratic, in a way. Definitely a Dickens novel, Harry thought.

While Harry was occupied with his observations, Tom wasted no time in tugging on Harry's hand and brushing through the pub, leading Harry out the back door and seemingly into a dead end.

Harry watched with interest as Tom withdrew his wand from the inner pocket of Miss Jenkins's red pea coat, pausing.

"Watch carefully, Harry. I won't show you again."

When he saw Harry nod, he went about gingerly tapping on a seemingly random sequence of bricks.. A moment later, the bricks moved, dancing apart in an intricate pattern, the complexity but a faint reflection of what lay beyond. And seeing what lay beyond, Harry's eyes went wide, and all his breath escaped his lungs.

"This is...Diagon Alley?"

Tom nodded. "For many witches and wizards unfortunate enough to be raised by muggles, this is their first glimpse of the Wizarding World." He paused. "Soak in everything, Harry. The colours, the sounds, the smells, the very taste of the air...you'll never forget this moment."

Harry nodded avidly, and took it all in. The 'alley's' sides were lined seamlessly with shop after shop, bustling with adults and children alike, the cobblestone street beneath them barely visible. The whole place was at the same time antique and novel, everything crafted of polished glass and neatly worked wood, which complemented the archaic clothing style that seemed to be commonplace for wizards. Dresses and long coats of fine velvet and silk seemed to slip in and out of stores and through crowds, weaving these strange swirling patterns in constant metamorphosis that made the alley look positively _alive_.

Chattering, shouts, laughter, footfalls - _noise -_ it all sounded like music to his ears. And then there were the _smells_. Pastries and smoke and sunshine.

Absently squeezing Tom's hand, he let the Dark Lord wearing a school teacher lead him skillfully through the crowded streets until they reached a great white building, labeled with the stark, deeply carven letters, 'GRINGOTTS BANK.'

Harry suddenly felt very small as he was led up whitewashed steps to the bank. When they reached the doors, Tom stopped him.

"Goblins are...temperamental creatures -"

"Like you?"

Harry felt a shot of pain in his scar. Apparently Tom could still torture him even if they _weren't_ sharing a body.

"Be polite, do not speak unless necessary, and stay close to me."

Honestly, Harry never understood why _Tom_ of all people told _him_ to be polite. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Harry figured it was part of Tom's ongoing attempt to act like a responsible non-psychopathic adult.

Pushing open the heavy, polished wooden doors, Harry and Tom found another set of silver doors inside, at which Tom patiently paused to allow Harry to read the inscription over the entrance:

 _Enter, stranger, but take heed  
Of what awaits the sin of greed  
For those who take, but do not earn,  
Must pay most dearly in their turn.  
So if you seek beneath our floors  
A treasure that was never yours,  
Thief, you have been warned, beware  
Of finding more than treasure there._

Well that was...inspiring. Wouldn't it be amazing, he thought, to work in a place that warned off thieves with a _riddle_? It was positively _epic_. Were there treasures hidden underground, then? And guarded by this mysterious obstacle the riddle spoke of? Great wizard guards? Some terrible and fantastic spell? Some exotic beast? Or maybe...a _dragon?_

Entering the bank, Harry's eyes went wide as he observed the vast rows of busy tellers, all manned by small, leering creatures, which he assumed were goblins. They certainly looked very...goblin-y. The floor was of smooth, polished marble, a classy black and white sort of marble, and the hall lit by brightly shimmering, yet cobwebbed crystal chandeliers. Harry was lost in the majestic display so thoroughly that he nearly forgot where he was, as Tom led him forward.

Meanwhile, Tom approached the goblin at the closest unoccupied teller, and stared at him, saying nothing.

Eventually, the creature looked down at him – which, really, was a her, at the moment – warily. "Yes?"

"I have been absent for many years, and I believe my Gringotts vault will have been closed due to inactivity."

The goblin's wiry eyebrows went up. "And I assume that you wish for your account to be reopened, Miss …?"

Tom narrowed his eyes. "My name will not be necessary."

The goblin looked at him suspiciously. "Your wand, then?"

Tom once again withdrew his wand from his - Miss Jenkins's - pea coat pocket, but hesitated before giving it to the goblin. "I require the utmost discretion," he glanced down at the goblin's nameplate, "Redclaw. Believe me when I say that any indiscretions will be... _dealt with_."

The goblin bristled as he took the offered wand, inspecting it closely. Once he'd run his eyes over the whole thing, he reached down, and from under his desk, he retrieved a strange device, a sort of squarish object with a glowing crystal in the centre, which he proceeded to slowly wave over the wand. A moment later, the goblin's eyes widened, and he handed the wand back to Tom with shaking hands.

"Please," intoned the goblin cautiously, "Follow me."

The goblin led them into what appeared to be a rather fancy waiting room, the walls veiled by intricate red tapestries which matched the upholstery of the gold gilded chairs they were shown to.

"Please be seated."

Harry and Tom did so, and a moment later, Redclaw disappeared, but only for a couple of moments, after which another goblin waddled in with Redclaw. This goblin looked much older, sturdier, and quite frankly, scarier. His wrinkled face was scarred and his wiry grey hairs stuck out every which way (rather like Harry's own hair). Nonetheless, the old goblin's voice was soft.

"Please, sirs, follow me."

Tom rose to his feet, but stopped Harry from leaving his chair.

"Redclaw, if you would, my companion has his own business to attend to."

Harry looked up at Tom. "I do?"

Tom smirked a bit. "You don't think your parents left you with nothing, do you?"

Harry's eyes widened, and he nodded.

Once Tom and the other goblin had left, Harry looked over at Redclaw, who was staring at him expectantly.

"I...er...believe my parents may have left something here for me."

The goblin simply looked unimpressed.

Harry sighed and went on, "Their names were James and Lily Potter…"

Redclaw's eyes widened with recognition. He nodded. "I see. Key?"

Harry panicked, for a moment. "I, well, don't have one. My guardians, they're muggles, you see…"

The goblin quirked an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Instead, he poked his head out the door behind him and called, "Griphook!"

Yet another goblin appeared, stalking through the wide doorway with a purposeful stride, and looking curiously over at Redclaw.

"Mr. Potter wishes to access his account, but is without a key. I trust you will take care of him?"

Griphook glanced between the two, but then nodded, beckoning for Harry to follow him.

Meanwhile, Harry's mind was reeling as he recalled the poem at the entrance. Was he in trouble? Did they think he was impostor? What would they do with him? Would he be punished...eaten by a dragon, maybe? He shook his head. Tom wouldn't have left him alone if he believed the goblins would hurt him. After all, who ever heard of someone getting eaten by a dragon because they lost a key?

Well, it's probably happened once or twice, now that he thought about it.

Griphook had led Harry out of the waiting room through an arched doorway opposite to the one he had appeared through, into an office-like room, furnished with only a desk and two chairs, cushioned with black leather and gilded with gold. Griphook made his way to the chair behind the desk, reaching into one of the drawers. Harry watched with fascination as Griphook withdrew a small golden basin, and then an ornate dagger and placed them on the desk.

"Now Mr. Potter…As you are not in possession of your key, we must take a special blood test to affirm your identity."

Harry nodded. That was reasonable. Then he looked at the two objects questioningly. "Is there something special about that particular bowl and knife? They look awfully...specific."

Griphook stared at him oddly, as though he had not expected him to ask such a question. Why that was, he didn't know. The bowl and dagger really did look rather particular, and equally mysterious. "They are paraphernalia of goblin ceremonial magic, Mr. Potter."

Harry's eyes lit up. "Really? How does it work?"

The goblin looked at him suspiciously. "We do not reveal such things to outsiders."

Harry deflated a bit. "I see. That makes sense. So...how much blood do you need? Shall I just prick my finger?

Griphook dipped his head in acquiescence, pushing the two items toward Harry.

Without flinching, Harry sliced the dagger through his left index finger, watching in awe as the blood dribbled from his finger, falling into the basin, moving of its own accord and tracing his name, _Harry James Potter,_ over the shimmering gold. "Brilliant."

Griphook nodded appreciatively. "It is goblin magic – it cannot be fooled by wizarding magic."

Harry perked up at this. "What's the difference between goblin magic and wizard magic? Except, um, the obvious…"

Griphook cast him an amused but reprimanding look. "We do not reveal such things to outsiders," he repeated. "Now, everything seems to be in order. Firstly, you can have a new key commissioned if you so wish, and we can nullify the old one."

Harry blinked. "Where _is_ my old key?"

Griphook frowned and reached into the desk, pulling out a rather thick file, flipping through it with expert ease. "Last we checked, it was in the possession of one Albus Dumbledore."

Harry's eyes flashed with recognition. "Dumbledore? Why does he have my key?"

Griphook shook his head. "That, I do not know. Most likely your parents arranged for it to fall into his possession should a certain series of circumstances occur. Nothing can be done about it, except the creation of a new key."

Harry's eyes narrowed in thought. "Have there...been any withdrawals from my vault in the last ten years?"

Griphook quirked an eyebrow. "Which one?"

"I have more than one?"

"Indeed, Mr. Potter, but only one is currently open."

"Which is..."

"The trust fund, set up for your parents."

Harry felt warmth flood his chest. His parents set up a _trust fund_ for him? That was so thoughtful of them. "Well, any withdrawals from that one?"

Griphook scanned the page. "No, none."

Harry nodded, somewhat relieved. "Well, in that case...is there a way to make me a new key without nullifying the old one?"

Griphook's eyes widened in surprise. "I can just make you a copy of the old one."

Harry nodded. "I think that would be best. I...I don't want anyone to know I was here, you see. Which reminds me...any way you can make my visit...off the books, so to speak?"

"That is not a problem, Mr. Potter. Gringotts values the privacy of our customers. Now, please wait here. I will return with your key forthwith."

A moment later, Griphook returned.

"Here you go, Mr. Potter," he said, handing the key over.

"Thank you for your help, Griphook."

"Not a problem, Mr. Potter. Now, would you like to see your vault?"

A grin crept on to Harry's face. "Yes please!"

* * *

If Harry loved the Knight Bus, he _adored_ the underground rail system of Gringotts. Now _that_ was a ride. He wanted to do it again, and again, and again...

He wondered if Tom would let him return to Gringotts for the sole purpose of riding the carts again. Probably not, but it was definitely worth a try.

Harry ended up withdrawing 20 galleons and 50 pounds, with which he was provided a nice little black velvet bag. He wasn't sure he'd need the cash anytime soon, but figured it could come in handy. After all, now that he had his own money, he really had no excuse to keep stealing it.

When he and Griphook returned, Tom was already there waiting for him.

"Have you settled your accounts?"

Harry nodded.

"Then let us go. We have much to do," he said, leading Harry toward the exit.

Harry looked over his shoulder with a smile.

"Thank you again!"

Once they reached the outside of the bank, Harry looked up at Tom.

"I like goblins. They're very...efficient."

"That they are."

"Say, Tom, I've been wondering for the last couple of hours..."

"Yes, Harry?"

"Why do we need Miss Jenkins for all of this?"

Tom sighed. "There are a couple of reasons. First, a child your age wandering around alone in Diagon Alley is quite suspicious, don't you think?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, I suppose so."

"The other reason is that you would not have been able to access my vault."

"And Miss Jenkins could?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Not quite. I had a number of security measures placed on my vault...certain requirements needed to be met. The first was my wand. Once they had seen it, the next step was a test to verify my magical core."

Harry's eyes widened. "And mine would have interfered with the test?"

"Very good, Harry. That is correct. The last security measure is a parseltongue password."

Harry nodded. "That makes sense." He frowned. "Does this mean you need to possess someone every time you visit your vault?"

Tom nodded. "For now. Why do you think I had Severus brew so much of the Injicio Potion?"

Harry nodded. "I have another question."

"Which is?"

"I've been wondering, how does it feel to have freckles?"

"I think, Harry, that should you ever possess someone with freckles, you will find that you cannot feel them."

"I see. Anyway, where to next?"

"The Daily Prophet's office."

"Um, what's that?"

"Is your mind really that feeble, or were you merely not listening earlier?"

"Ummm..." He must have missed something at some point, probably while he had been enjoying the Knight Bus. Oops.

Tom sighed. "Wizarding Britain's most widely distributed newspaper. Woefully inaccurate at times, but still the best way to acquire an understanding of current events."

It did not take long for Tom and Harry to traverse their next path through Diagon Alley, finding themselves standing below the sign that marked the entrance to The Daily Prophet main office soon after leaving Gringotts. The building was quite tidy, professional looking. It was obvious there was a muffling charm on it somewhere, perhaps in the wards; for though the building seemed quiet and tranquil on the outside, through the windows, Harry could see obvious signs of vivacity. Whilst Harry stared what seemed to be a very strange place (he'd never been anywhere like a newspaper office before), Tom gingerly opened the door and tugged at Harry's wrist, ushering him into the bustling newsroom – reporters were deep in discussions, or otherwise fixated on their papers and quills, and in the back, the editor's shouts could be heard. Harry felt quite out of place, just standing there amidst the buzz, and was a bit dazed as he followed Tom to the main desk.

The man sitting there was dressed in a brown tweed suit - one that was tidy, but obviously not very expensive. The man, Andy Smudgley, if the nameplate was to be believed, didn't notice them standing there, at first.

Harry saw Tom narrow his eyes and glare at the man, clearly holding the Mr. Smudgley's lack of observational skills against him, exuding malice in the way he was so good at.

Upon Tom's change in demeanor, the man's eyes snapped open wide and he glanced up at Tom, immediately raking his eyes over his – rather, Miss Jenkins's – slender, delicate, and very feminine form.

"And how may I help you this fine afternoon, ma'am?"

"I need to see your archives," Tom announced curtly.

The man looked up at him, disappointed, as though what he had expected a different request. "Afraid I can't do that...they're not open to the public."

Tom's glare intensified, and Harry felt subtle tendrils of Tom's dark magic seeping out. Tom was powerful, even possessing a muggle. Then came the barely audible whisper, _"Imperio."_

"I will see those archives, Mr. Smudgley."

The man nodded slowly, his eyes glazed over and a dazed expression having come over his face, and nodded to the right. "Through that door."

Tom nodded curtly. "Do not inform anyone of our presence."

The room was dusty, though not unclean – it had a high ceiling, and the rows and rows of shelves nearly rose to its full height; Harry immediately concluded that it was magic, not sound construction, that kept the shelves, nearly bursting with filed Daily Prophet issues, standing. They were sorted by year – going back to 1785 – and Tom quickly located the section he was looking for.

"1981?" Harry asked.

Tom nodded. "I've spent enough time uninformed of the events following my demise. Now, do you remember the list of names I had you memorize?"

Harry nodded. "Avery, Carrow, Crabbe, Dolohov, Goyle, Karkaroff, Lestrange, Malfoy, Macnair, Mulciber, Nott, Rosier, Yaxley."

"Good. Now those," he pointed to a pile of papers at the bottom of the shelf. "Are court records. I want you to search them, and bring me the ones referring to any of those names."

Harry saluted, and immediately got to work.

* * *

By the time they finished at the Daily Prophet, Harry had read through all the court records for the Death Eater trials that took place in 1981 and 1982. The whole ordeal had been something of a success; Tom was pleased that he now had an idea of what had occurred in the wizarding world since his departure, and was very happy with Harry's own progress. He now knew which of his Death Eaters were in Azkaban and which weren't.

"You did very well, Harry. I think you deserve a reward."

Harry's eyes brightened. "Really?"

Tom nodded. "Come, I know of a place you'll like very much."

Tom led him down yet another crowded path through Diagon Alley, until they reached a busy looking bookshop going by the name Flourish and Blotts.

A grin stretched across Harry's face. _Books._ Tom meant to buy him _books_.

"You can pick out one book."

Harry pouted. "Just one?"

"Maybe two," Tom conceded, as he opened the door for Harry.

Once inside, Harry was hard pressed not to let out a squeal of glee – for he was surrounded, nigh suffocated in _mountains, thousands_ of books. Harry had spent quite a bit of time at the library, so he was quite skilled at and accustomed to navigating treacherous paths through mountains of books, but he wasn't quite prepared for this – there were books everywhere; and what was more, he didn't even understand most of the titles. It was thrilling.

"Where should I start?"

A subtle smile crossed Tom's face as he radiated amusement. "That would be telling."

Harry scowled at him.

"Now, there is one more thing I must attend to." He grabbed Harry's hand and dropped into it a handful of galleons. "Buy as many books as you want."

"I thought you said -"

"I changed my mind."

Harry smiled triumphantly.

"Now, I will be back in about an hour."

Harry looked at him curiously. "Where are you going?"

"That is not your concern. Stay out of trouble."

And with that, Tom, who Harry had started calling _Miss Riddle_ in his head, disappeared out the door, leaving Harry in what was possibly the most fantastic place he had ever been to.

There were so many books Harry saw that might come in handy, like _Hogwarts, a History_ , which looked quite informative, or _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,_ another massive history text. In the end, he decided against those ones...they looked rather heavy, and he'd read enough history lately. Reading about the Holocaust in the detail Tom had demanded had really turned him off of history for the time being. Perhaps another time.

He was very fascinated by some of the titles that implied more applied knowledge, like _1001 Ways to Get Revenge without Landing Yourself in Azkaban: a Comprehensive Dictionary of Hexes and Curses_ _,_ and another called _Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More)_ by Professor Vindictus Viridian. Both sounded very useful indeed. Then there were _A Starting Guide to Human Transfiguration_ and _101 Practical Household Potions_ , which also sounded exceptionally useful.

There were also some more challenging looking titles, like _A Beginner's Guide to Spell Crafting_ and _Combat Magic: An in Depth Analysis of Duelling Techniques._ There was also _Rudiments of Healing Magic_ and _A Survey of Magical Diseases,_ all of which sounded incredibly impressive, if not a bit intimidating. There was also _Ancient and Rare: a Survey of Little Known Magics from around the World,_ which he knew he couldn't resist.

In the end, he decided on _Curses and Countercurses, A Beginner's Guide to Spell Crafting,_ and the Rare Magics text.

Once he'd made his decision, he made his way to the counter, gladly parting with the appropriate amount of Galleons (which was close to all of them). In the end, Harry left Flourish and Blotts quite satisfied, and was happy to see _M_ _iss Riddle_ waiting outside.

"Tom! Look what I got!" He all but shoved the three books in his friend's face.

Tom nodded, promptly plucking them out of his hands and examining the covers. "Prudent choices."

"Are you finished with whatever you had to do?"

Tom nodded, reaching into his pea coat and producing a little black leather book. "Over the next seven years, Harry, you will be exposed to a wealth of knowledge. I urge you to let none of it go to waste."

And with that, he handed the little black book to Harry.

"A belated birthday gift."

His first gift - the first real thing anyone had ever given to him. Harry stared at it with adoration, committing to memory every part of it. He ran his fingers over the unspoiled, rich leather, tracing the gold gilded numbers on the back indicating the year.

 _1990_

Carefully, he opened it to the front page, feeling the softness of the pages, and finding, scripted with what was no doubt Tom's spidery handwriting, his name:

 _H. J. Potter_

He loved it. Words couldn't express how much he loved it. Though, it was odd...it looked very familiar, like he'd seen it before. He just couldn't place the image.

* * *

Next chapter, Hogwarts Letter! (finally)

Thanks for reading, and please review!


	12. Tom, Dick, and Harry

**Disclaimer:** yep, still not owning anything here.

 **AN1:** In advance, I apologize. This chapter will be a bit on the brief and choppy side, as its main function is to make the transition into Year One at Hogwarts. Really, this is just Harry getting his letter and wand, that's all it's really about.

 **AN2:** Neither Hagrid nor McGonagall are giving Harry his letter/taking him shopping. Why? Because Harry is smart enough to keep his letter a secret and though not explicitly stated, he wrote his acceptance letter immediately after receiving the Hogwarts letter. As a result, the Hogwarts staff assume that his Aunt is taking him shopping, or something like that.

 **AN3:** Gahhh! No, no, no people! It's not T.M. Riddle's diary that Voldemort gave Harry. It's a brand new one. I tried to highlight the fact that it was new by mentioning that the leather was unspoiled, the pages were soft, and 1990 was printed on it, etc...but I guess I was unsuccessful. This is diary is genuinely Harry's. What its purpose is, ...spoilers...but for now, it's just something for Harry to keep track of the spells he learns with.

Oooh, by the way, what do you think about my shiny new summary? I thought it reflects the fact that Harry is a much more mature person than he was at the beginning of the story.

Any way, I'm posting 3 times this week, because I can ;)

* * *

 **Chapter 12: Tom, Dick, and Harry**

 _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
_ _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
_ _Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

 _Yours sincerely,  
_

 _Minerva McGonagall  
_ _Deputy Headmistress._

Harry stared at the letter, absolutely delighted. This was it. It was finally here. No more sitting around at Number 4 Privet Drive waiting for real life to start - now he was going to Hogwarts, _where he belonged._ No more Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley; no more angry teachers and frightened classmates; no more _muggles._ He was about to be set free. And it was all because of this wonderful little letter.

He immediately ran up the stairs to his room and pulled Tom's mirror out from under his pillow. "Tom! Tom! I got my letter!"

"Congratulations, Harry."

Harry looked at the mirror smugly, unable to contain the joy bursting inside him. "Why thank you, Tom."

Tom noticed the self-satisfied look on Harry's face, and scoffed a bit. "Insufferable child. You haven't even finished reading it yet. There should be another piece of parchment in there."

Harry reached into the envelope and pulled it out.

 _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 _UNIFORM  
First-year students will require:  
Three sets of plain work robes (black)  
One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear  
One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)  
Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags._

 _COURSE BOOKS  
_ _All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) _by Miranda Goshawk_

A History of Magic _by Bathilda Bagshot_

Magical Theory _by Adalbert Waffling_

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration _by Emeric Switch_

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore_

Magical Drafts and Potions _by Arsenius Jigger_

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _by Newt Scamander_

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection _by Quentin Trimble_

 _OTHER EQUIPMENT  
_ _1 wand  
_ _1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
_ _1 set glass or crystal phials  
_ _1 telescope  
_ _1 set brass scales_

 _Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad._

 _PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK_

Harry stared at the the list incredulously. "It's way too long."

"That is only because you are lazy."

"Hey! But really, Tom, do I have to buy _all_ of this?"

"Fortunately, we can find all these things at Diagon Alley...it will take less time than you might think."

Harry nodded eagerly. "Ok. When are we going?"

"Tomorrow."

"Really!?"

"Of course."

"Is it just you and I, or are we bringing someone with us?"

The man in the mirror had a dismissive look on his face. "We'll find someone in London."

"One drop or two?"

"One should suffice."

Harry smiled and nodded. "Oh, and can I get a toad?"

Tom grimaced. "And why in the name of all that is holy would you want a toad?"

"I dunno, they're pretty cute, don't you think so?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Ok, what about a cat or owl? They can make hissing sounds, right? Could I teach it parseltongue!?"

Tom looked at him with that "what are you stupid?" look. "It doesn't work like that."

Harry pouted. "Fine."

"Now, if you're quite finished, open up that history book you were reading last night. I want to finish the chapter on human experimentation in Nazi Germany."

Harry grimaced. "Fine. But there's one thing that's bothering me about this letter, though..."

"Yes Harry?"

"What's a Mugwump?"

"I hardly think that's relevant."

 _:But Tooommmm...:_

* * *

Harry fought hard to control his breathing as he nimbly danced through the crowded cafe, dodging patrons left and right. He'd done this a few times before, but it still made him nervous – it was hard maintaining his disillusionment charm while scurrying around, trying to touch no one. His heart was beating quickly when he reached the counter. Carefully, he removed a small vial from his pocket and gingerly dropped a drop of his translucent blue potion into a coffee cup waiting to be picked up. As soon as he'd done so, Harry ran outside to wait for Tom.

Less than 5 minutes later, a tall young man in a fine black, tastefully pinstriped suit (tie and everything) sauntered out of the coffee shop with a gait that could only be Tom's.

Harry's eyes widened. "He looks like a lawyer."

Indulging him, Tom reached into the breast pocket of the suit and pulled out a business card. He quirked an eyebrow. "You're right. Richard Becker, Attorney at Law."

Harry gasped. "His name's Richard?"

"Yes," Tom said absently, tossing the card aside.

"Then we're Tom, Dick, and Harry!"

Tom did not dignify that with an answer.

"Are you going to cast a glamour on me?"

When they originally visited Diagon Alley, Tom had cast the spell because Harry looked a lot like his father, and he wanted to be sure he wasn't recognized. However, during their trip to the Daily Prophet, Tom had discovered that Harry was actually quite famous in his own right, making it necessary, for subsequent visits, to keep casting the charm. Tom usually made Harry look roughly like whatever person he was possessing, so that they could pass for family.

"That will not be necessary, today. If anyone asks, I'm a friend of your mother's from overseas. Follow me."

Obediently, Harry trailed behind Tom, matching his long strides with a little bit of a jog. They had deliberately chosen a cafe near the Leaky Cauldron, so within 7 minutes, they'd reached Diagon Alley. It was a quick and easy walk, for which Harry, who'd barely slept the night before (who _sleeps_ right after getting their Hogwarts letter?), was grateful.

In fact, the whole affair was rather quick. Harry'd already withdrawn enough from Gringotts last time they visited Diagon Alley (which was only a couple of months ago...Tom insisted that they visit Diagon Alley semi-frequently because he had _business_ to attend to), so they went straight to Flourish and Blotts to purchase his school books (which Tom was kind enough to shrink for him), and then they headed off to look for his uniform. Harry was a little displeased about that particular task.

"Why do I need a pointed hat? It seems a bit silly, if you ask me. I mean, what's the _point_? If you know what I mean."

"Why do we need uniforms? Isn't that a _muggle_ thing? I thought wizards would be more keen on individuality."

"Why does the fastening have to be silver? What if I want bronze or gold or something? I like silver better, but what if I didn't? Would they expel me for having bronze fastenings? That hardly seems fair."

While Madame Malkin was amused by his nitpicking comments, Tom was quite irritated by his questions (because he didn't know how to answer them, Harry thought), but seemed satisfied when sending a wave of pain through Harry's scar succeeded in shutting him up.

Retrieving the rest of his school supplies was rather routine, and pretty boring, to be honest, until they came to the end of their shopping list: his wand.

It was around 3 o'clock in the afternoon when they approached a shop labeled in letters of peeling gold over stained oak wood -

 _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._

\- which Harry thought was very impressive. Harry knew little about wands, but he figured that if a store had been in business since 382 B.C., their products must have been of superior quality.

"Ollivanders?"

"Garrick Ollivander is the wandmaker. My understanding is that the craft has been passed down in his family for generations."

"382 B.C. is a really long time ago," Harry commented, "Is he the best wandmaker in Diagon Alley?" He hadn't seen any other stores around around, but he assumed that not all of them were so old.

"The closest wandmaker I know of is Gregorovitch, but he works on the continent."

Harry blinked. "Then Mr. Ollivander has monopoly over the wand market here in England?"

Tom smirked a bit, amused. "Yes, that's correct Harry."

"Huh. Interesting."

"Indeed."

"So...do we just go in and try out wands?"

"This is probably one of the most important moments of your life, Harry. Alas, I will not be able to witness it with you."

"What? Why?"

"Garrick Olivander, the wandmaker, is a very observant man – he remembers every wand he ever sold. I will not risk him discovering who I am."

Harry nodded sadly. "I understand."

"Now, cheer up, Harry; your most faithful friend waits for you inside."

Harry looked up at him solemnly. " _Second_ most faithful friend."

Tom raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, settling on pointedly nodding toward the door of the shop.

And that was what led Harry to enter the narrow, dark wand shop, blinking as he hit a substantial layer of dust upon his entrance. Boxes containing what Harry assumed were wands lined the walls, thousands of them piled at unsteady heights. Harry's eyes traced them high up to a second story of the shop, finding piles of other boxes above - all of them tingling with magic, causing Harry to feel faint as he observed the jumbled myriad.

"Good afternoon," a soft voice said suddenly.

Harry blinked, and turned around to see an old man, his wide, pale eyes seeming to shimmer in the darkness of the shop as they stared piercingly at Harry.

"Good afternoon."

The man tilted his head slightly in thought. "Ah yes," he began, "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." He slowly titled his head to the other side, a subtle smile twisting his lips. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand - a young girl with eyes like jewels and hair like fire, the most determined smile on her face that I'd ever seen. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work. My understanding is that she put it to good use."

Harry stared at him, enraptured, silently begging him to say more.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it — it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Tom had told him as much, and Harry knew from experience that his best friend often went so far as to personify his own wand.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ollivander had stalked so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

"And that's where…"

Mr. Ollivander brushed Harry's wavy black fringe away from his forehead, touching the lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead with a slender, pallid finger, whilst Harry froze, unsure of what he should respond to Mr. Ollivander's actions.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly, sadly; the slightest visage of guilt crossing his features. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

"You'd have sold it anyway, right? That's your job, isn't it?" Harry asked frankly. "Everything happens for a reason, Mr. Ollivander."

Mr. Ollivander recoiled from Harry, eyeing him with a calm expression that was somewhat wary. "That it does, Mr. Potter, that it does."

Harry smiled a bit. "So...how do I go about getting a wand of my own?"

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Ollivander, seemingly snapping to attention. "Of course, Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Well, I'm right-handed," Harry replied.

"Then hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

 _So don't lose it,_ was the unspoken warning.

It was then that Harry realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing all this on its own, whilst Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, retrieving several boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure obediently crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry inspected the wand with wide and curious eyes, tentatively waving it, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try —"

Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

CRASH!

The shelves shook slightly, and Harry was quite sure he had just blown something up in the back of the store. He blushed.

"Well, it's certainly not that one. Here, try this…"

So Harry tried. And tried. And tried some more, beginning to feel quite bad about the whole thing. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for – and, of course, Mr. Ollivander wouldn't tell him. All he knew that he kept breaking things, and damaging poor Mr. Ollivander's shop. The man didn't seem upset about it, but he really did feel terrible. Was there something wrong with him? Was this normal? Was he defective? Why was this taking so long? Perhaps his wand wasn't there. What would he do then?

The pile of useless wands - oak and heartstrings, birch and heartstrings, willow and unicorn hair, phoenix feather and apple wood - was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair in the corner, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the more oddly gleeful he seemed to become, as though he had been presented with a brilliant challenge, a puzzle to be solved. Harry was glad someone was enjoying themselves, because he was starting to feel rather anxious about the whole affair.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand, very cautiously. Then, he felt a sudden warmth in his fingers – different from when he did magic without a wand, and yet the same; it was familiar, comfortable, and yet exciting...and incredibly intoxicating. It was vivid and potent, pointed and concrete; an experience he would never forget.

He raised the wand above his head and brought it swishing down through the dusty air, and a stream of sparks of every colour imaginable shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light all over the walls.

Mr. Ollivander smiled fully for the first time since Harry had met him, crying out , "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering absently, "Curious… curious…"

"Sorry, sir," said Harry, "But what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander cast upon Harry his blank, pallid stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother — why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry's eyes widened.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew," Ollivander repeated, caught up in the memory of it, "Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…after all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great."

Harry shivered at the man's smoothly expectant, fascinated tone; he hoped he looked wary, perhaps a little bit fearful, but inside he was bursting with joy. He and Tom had _brother_ wands. How cool was that?

Harry gave the man a small smile. "Isn't greatness in the eye of the beholder, sir?"

Ollivander's gaze sharpened. "Indeed it is Mr. Potter, but if I may be so bold, I would posit that what you can accomplish will be great in the eyes of many, if not all."

"But...how could you know something like that? Do you know the future, sir?" Harry asked avidly.

The old man chuckled a bit, before the smile once again slipped off his face. "No Mr. Potter, I do not know the future. Whether you will be good or evil, loved or feared, kind or terrible, I do not know. But when one has been around as long as I have, one learns to recognize _potential_."

Harry nodded slowly. "I will certainly do my best, Mr. Ollivander."

The man stared at him for a long minute, his eyes scrutinizing Harry mercilessly. Soon, though, he snapped out of it. "Eleven galleons," He said, making his way behind the counter.

* * *

Once Harry reached the out side of the shop, he thought he might explode with happiness as he ran up to Tom, who was looking at him expectantly.

"Tom! Guess what? Guess what?"

Tom smiled at him with uncharacteristic softness. "What is it, Harry?"

"My wand! Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches long! The core is the same as yours, Tom! Mr. Ollivander said that they're _brother_ wands!"

Tom stared at him with wide eyes, and looked stunned for a moment, before he recovered, and a smile curved his lips again. "Well isn't that fascinating? Very fascinating indeed."

Harry smiled brilliantly up at his friend, completely oblivious to the cold metal cogs turning in Tom's mind.

* * *

Next chapter: "Welcome Aboard the Hogwarts Express"!

Thanks for reading an reviewing. Until next time ;)


	13. Welcome Aboard the Hogwarts Express

**Disclaimer:** still not owning anything. Especially not those direct quotes from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone._ Really, it's true. I promise.

 **AN:** Another slightly awkward transition chapter, but there are a few moments in there I quite like, so I hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 13: Welcome Aboard the Hogwarts**

Tom's instructions had been very clear. Arrive at the platform early, find an empty compartment, and open a book.

"Let _them_ come to you, Harry. They _will_ come – you needn't seek them out."

Who _they_ were, Tom hadn't been too clear on, but Harry trusted him, as always.

To be perfectly honest, he wasn't too eager to meet his potential new friends anyway. It wasn't that he didn't want friends - on the contrary, he was thrilled at the prospect of making friends who could, like him, do magic. It was the meeting them part that had him worried. Tom had been quite confident that his experience at Hogwarts would differ greatly from his time at muggle primary school, but there was still a part of him that was afraid to be disappointed. People had a habit of disappointing him, after all. And what if they thought he was a freak too? Tom _had_ told him that even among witches and wizards, he was a rarity.

"Power like that which you possess is not a common thing, Harry. I cannot stress the unlikeliness that four immensely powerful wizards – Grindewald, Dumbledore, you, and myself – have all lived within the same century."

And apparently, he didn't just have power going for him.

"You are entering a world in which you will be blessed with money, fame, and power. Do not waste it."

It was a lot of pressure...he certainly didn't want to mess things up on his first day. So he did exactly as Tom told him – he arrived at Platform 9 3/4 at 10 am, and boarded the Hogwarts Express immediately, easily locating an empty compartment and sealing the door behind him before he sat down and opened his copy of _Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ and the diary Tom had given him. Tom had said that he could practice magic on the train, and so he intended to do just that. His goal was to try every spell in his diary and the first chapter of his textbook. It was a lofty goal, but Tom said that doing magic with a wand was _much_ easier than doing it without. Harry hoped he was right.

As for Tom himself, he was off possessing some poor bloke who was buying coffee near King's Cross station at 9:58 am. Before he'd left, Tom had warned him that he would be sorted into his house by a talking hat that happened to also be a skilled legillimens. Harry was quite entranced by the whole idea but was also fairly nervous, and he would have liked to have Tom there with him...but he understood Tom's concerns. Tom didn't want anyone to know he was there, especially not a talking, mind reading hat - that probably wasn't a good combination when it came to secret keeping. Because of this fact, Tom's consciousness was taking a brief vacation from Harry's head, so as to not alert the hat to his presence. Even then, Tom was clear about taking precautions.

"Don't let him in, Harry. Just ask him to sort you into Slytherin and be done with it."

"Why Slytherin?"

"Because you're my heir, and therefore the Heir of Slytherin, you foolish child."

So apparently Harry was going to be in Slytherin.

By about a quarter hour after train started moving, Harry had tried all the spells he was able to do wandlessly with his wand. As Tom had said, it was _much_ easier. Pleased with his success, Harry was quite eager to start working through his textbook. But just as he was about to practice his wand movements for the tickling charm (never know when that might come in handy), his compartment door slid open.

Standing awkwardly in the doorway was a boy about his age, his face covered by freckles and framed by fiery red hair.

"Excuse me," the boy began nervously, "Do you mind? Everywhere else is full."

Harry looked at him curiously. "No, not at all."

The boy sat down across from Harry. "So, who 're you?"

"It's polite to introduce yourself first," Harry commented mildly.

The boy started. "Oh, right! I'm Ron, Ron Weasley."

Weasley...Harry mused. Where did he know the name from? Ah, right, the Order of the Phoenix. A potentially valuable ally, then.

Harry smiled at him. "I'm Harry Dursley."

Just as they were introducing themselves, a trolley rolled by their compartment, covered in all sorts of sweets that were completely unfamiliar to Harry's eyes.

"Anything off the trolley, dears?"

"No, I'm good..."

"Yes please!" Harry said with a brilliant smile.

Now, the woman didn't seem to have anything at all (literally, nothing) that he recognized, but what she did have were (and he was being completely serious about the names, here) Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Liquorice Wands and a number of other odd looking treats. Not wanting to risk missing out on anything, Harry did the completely reasonable thing, and bought a bit of everything.

Weasley stared on with wide eyes as Harry brought it all back into the compartment and tipped it on to an empty seat.

"Hungry, are you?"

"Somewhat."

"Sweet tooth?"

"Oh, definitely," said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty. He really did like sweets - not that anyone had ever cared to ask before. He was already liking Ron Weasley quite a bit.

Meanwhile, the boy had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside, one of which he pulled apart and said,

"She always forgets I don't like corned beef."

"Swap you for one of these," said Harry, holding up a pasty. "Or two, or four."

"You don't want this, it's all dry," said the Weasley boy. "She hasn't got much time," he added quickly, "You know, with five of us."

Harry just smiled. "I assure you, I've had worse. I just happen to fancy some corned beef right now, you know? So come on, indulge me."

Ten minutes later, the compartment was littered with candy wrappers. Truly, Harry felt quite bad about that. He was making a mess! Seriously, how undignified of him...if Tom were around, he would no doubt be in a lot of pain. Fortunately, though, his behaviour seemed to ingratiate him with the Weasley boy, and what Tom didn't know couldn't hurt him.

"So," Weasley said with a mouth full of chocolate, "You're muggleborn, then?"

Harry shook his head. "Halfblood...but it's complicated."

At that moment, three boys showed up at their compartment door – two very large ones, and a much smaller boy, who was extremely pale and had the lightest blonde hair Harry had ever seen. Ooh, ooh, he knew this one just by looking! Definitely a Malfoy.

"I heard Harry Potter is on this train," the boy said imperiously, "Have either of you two seen him?"

Harry and the Weasley boy both shook their heads.

"You know, it's polite to introduce yourself before asking questions," Harry could not help but comment.

The boy straightened his posture and puffed his chest out a bit. "Malfoy, Draco Malfoy." After mightily introducing himself, Malfoy leered at Weasley, cold grey eyes narrowing. "Red hair, Tattered books, second hand robes...you're a Weasley, aren't you?"

Before Weasley could snap back, Harry interupted. "Yes, this is Ron Weasley. My name is Tom Evans. It's a pleasure to meet you." He held out his hand for the Malfoy boy to shake.

But Malfoy just stared at it as though it were some offensively dirty object.

"Evans? That's not a wizard's name, is it? You're a mudblood then?"

He didn't wait for an answer, and settled on a sneer. "Come, Crabbe, Goyle, let's keep looking."

After Draco Malfoy left, Harry turned back to Weasley, to see him staring at him with confusion.

"Are you alright, Weasley?"

"I thought you said your name was Harry Dursley."

"Did I?"

Weasley nodded. "And you just told Malfoy that your name is Tom Evans."

Harry blinked. "So I did. Oh well, I guess I'm Tom Evans now. Please refer to me as such."

Weasley nodded slowly, looking at Harry warily.

Meanwhile, Harry cringed inwardly. His name game was probably going to come back to bite him...but he really didn't want to deal with the whole _Harry Potter_ business at the moment, not to mention he sort of fancied making a dramatic entrance at the sorting ceremony. Oh well, what's done is done.

He looked over at Weasley. "You know, before you showed up, I was practicing some spells."

The other boy looked at him with interest. "Oh, I know one! My brothers taught me!"

Harry grinned at that. "Oh, please show me!"

Eager to impress, Weasley reached into the small cage beside him, pulling out a fat grey rat. It was an odd, pathetic sort of creature, with a long bony tail and exceptionally large eyes. Harry also could not help but notice that it was missing a toe. Did someone cut it off?

"His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. My brother Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a Prefect, but they couldn't aff– I mean, I got Scabbers instead. He'll probably die soon, though. He's been in the family for ten years already..."

Ten years? That's a long time. Harry nodded. "It's quite funny looking."

Weasley grinned. "And I can make him look even funnier." He cleared his throat.

 _"Sunshine, daisies,  
_ _butter mellow,  
_ _Turn this stupid,  
_ _fat rat yellow."_

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey and fast asleep.

Harry looked at him with a sheepish smile. "I'm fairly certain that's not a real spell."

"Fred and George, think they're so bloody smart..." Weasley huffed. "Why can't anyone show me some _real_ magic?"

Harry looked at him amusedly, and then a curious look came over his face. "Say, Weasley, I could demonstrate a few spells for you.."

"Demonstrate?"

"Yes, well, I've found that this spell practicing thing is really a two person affair. I won't know if they're working right if I'm all alone, you see? So what do you say - would you mind helping me out a bit?"

* * *

Just as Harry was practicing his _Silencio_ charm on Weasley, who was a bit put off by the whole thing (despite having explicitly agreed to being a part of Harry's series of experiments), their compartment door flew open, revealing a stiff bushy-haired girl with rather large front teeth with a small but plump dark-haired boy, who looked terribly nervous, cowering behind her.

"Have either of you seen a toad?" she asked without prelude. "Neville's lost one."

Harry looked at her, and considered telling her how rude she was being, barging into their personal space like that, but he was starting to believe that this was just how children his age did things. Rudely. Now, Harry didn't believe in wasting time, but he never talked to people as though he was _entitled_ to their answers. Talking to someone and sharing space with them is an act of generosity, right?

Meanwhile, Weasley looked at her like she had grown a second head, but made to answer her nonetheless. But nothing came out.

Scowling, he kicked Harry in the leg.

Harry smiled sheepishly. "Right. _Finite_."

The girl's eyes lit up. "You're doing magic?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Just trying a few very basic spells."

Weasley looked at him incredulously.

The girl smiled eagerly, at that. "Well then, go on, let's see!"

Harry shrugged and pointed his wand at Weasley, who didn't have time to react.

 _"Rictumsempra."_

And with that, Weasley burst into uncontrollable giggles.

"S-stop!"

Harry nodded and cancelled the charm.

Meanwhile, the girl looked very, very jealous.

"Anyway," Harry said, oblivious to the girl's envious look and Weasley's glare, "We haven't seen any toads. Some frogs, but they were chocolate. Perhaps one of the prefects could help?"

The girl blinked, before exclaiming, "Oh, why didn't _I_ think of that? Come on Neville!"

And with that, she disappeared just as quickly as she had come, leaving Harry and the Weasley boy awkwardly staring at the door.

Harry shook his head. _"Wingardium Leviosa."_

"Scabbers!"

* * *

Scurrying out of the train with Weasley following behind, Harry followed the deep, rough voice bellowing, "Firs' Years! Firs' Years over here!" It was a friendly bellow, though, not at all like Vernon's, and it made Harry smile.

Following the voice, Harry forced himself not to gawk when he found it coming from an enormous man – in fact, he was fairly sure, based on the proportions of the man's body, that he was at least part giant. Apparently, humans and giants could interbreed – Harry didn't want to know how.

"C'mon, over here, step in the boats! Careful now. Any more firs' years?"

Harry cast one more glance at the man before stepping into one of the boats that still had two seats left, finding himself between the girl and boy he'd met earlier.

"No more'n four to a boat!" he heard the giant call.

"You again!" The girl said as a greeting. "My name is Hermione Granger, who are you?"

Harry turned to the bushy haired girl, finding her staring at him with bright, eager, and rather owlish brown eyes.

"Harry Evans," he returned, ignoring Weasley's snicker behind him.

The girl frowned slightly at Weasley, who was nudging Harry a bit, but her expression immediately cleared and she gestured toward the soft-featured boy beside her. "This is Neville Longbottom. His toad is still missing. You haven't seen it yet by any chance, have you?"

Harry and Weasley both shook their heads again.

"Everyone in?" they suddenly heard the giant shout. When no one protested - "Right then – FORWARD!"

Smoothly, the boats departed from the dock, gliding over the black waters of the lake. The subtle waves were shimmering with the faint evening starlight and the lamps that speckled the distant image of Hogwarts castle, a magnificent, stalwart fortress that managed to appear delicate and enchanting all the same, looming up against the grey-blue sky like a fantasy engendered straight out of the minds of the giddy, eager fleet of first years. All Harry felt was awe; being there, breathing in the brisk, damp air around him and relishing in the tender touches of the cool breeze tickling his face, as what was about to become his new home rose up, coming to life before him, was nothing like visiting it in Tom's memories. It was so much more vivid, so much more enthralling than he had expected. A deep ache was stirring in his chest, and Harry had to wonder if it was possible to miss a place you've never been to before.

"It's so beautiful…" he breathed as the castle came into full view, and he was finally able to see the details of the many towers and turrets ornamenting the stone structure.

Granger nodded rapidly and forcefully. "I can't believe it's real, it's so amazing!"

Harry turned to her with an amused smile. "Of course it's real. Amazing things can be real too, you know."

She scowled at him. "I didn't mean it like that," she said, her cheeks a bit red, "It was an expression, is all."

"Heads down!" came the giant's friendly but loud voice as the boats near the front of the company reached the cliff upon which the castle stood; the group of children immediately ducked their heads as the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that veiled a wide opening in the cliff side. They drifted through a shadowy tunnel, then, until the boats stopped at a subterranean harbour of sorts, where they clambered out of the boats and onto a shore of little pebbles.

"Oi! I go' a toad here! Anyone missing a toad?" called the giant, holding up a rather fat toad for all to see.

Upon seeing the toad, Longbottom bounded up to the giant, crying out blissfully, "Trevor!" and hugging the toad tightly, thanking the giant profusely, causing the large man to scratch the back of his head bashfully.

"Everyone here?" the giant's booming voice once again found them as he raised one of his magnificently enormous fists , and rapped thrice on the castle door.

The eleven-year-olds jumped as the door was flung open, a tall, spindly witch appearing, wearing a pointed hat over her dark hair, peppered with grey, and a matching green robe. Harry was very impressed that she managed not to look silly in her pointed hat.

She looked over the children appraisingly, a stern expression tempered only by the slightest maternal softness on her face.

"Here's all the firs' years, Professor McGonagall," the giant said. Ah, so this was who wrote the letters. No wonder they were so polite and precise sounding - the woman clearly wouldn't tolerate anything less.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

With a wave of her hand, the doors opened wider, ushering the group of students into a vast entrance hall of finely cut marble, lit by rows of glimmering torches. They followed her across the cold stone floor, a few of them glancing about at the fathomless ceiling above, as she led them into a small chamber to the right, from which they could hear the muffled voices of the older students. By this time, many of the students appeared quite nervous, fidgeting as they stood there awkwardly.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall, with a soft Scottish lilt in her voice. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting," she finished, her eyes lingering on Longbottom's cloak, fastened under his left ear and Weasley's nose, which was smudged with dirt.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," Professor McGonagall concluded. "Please wait quietly."

Immediately after she left, a torrent of hushed whispered erupted from the student body, Harry picking out pieces of conversation (whilst half-heartedly listening to Granger chatter on about all the spells she had looked up and wondering if they might come in handy at the sorting) including Weasley's exclamation "Fred told me it was a test, he said it hurts a lot!"

Harry could not help but smile at that. They'd be very relieved.

Suddenly, he heard a collective screech from behind him. He spun around, finding a myriad of ghostly shapes drifting through the back wall, greyish forms observing the children below as they bickered.

What appeared to be a short, fat monk was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance —"

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost — I say, what are you all doing here?"

Harry's smile grew into a grin. So these were the ghosts Tom had told him about.

Nobody answered, all of the first years glancing at each other nervously, so Harry decided to do the polite thing. "We're waiting to be sorted, sir."

"Ah, new students!" the fat ghost exclaimed, smiling cheerily at them.

A few people nodded mutely.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" he said. "My old house, you know."

Suddenly, a sharp voice interrupted the spectacle. "Move along now. The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." It was Professor McGonagall. As the ghosts drifted off, she continued, "Now form a line and follow me." Then the woman led the first years through a doorway, ignoring their gasps as they continued forward.

The Great Hall was truly a sight to behold – lit by hundreds upon hundreds of candles floating high above the four tables where sat the older students, in front of glittering gold plates, goblets, and cutlery. At the far end of the hall, upon a slight dais, was a fifth table where the teachers were seated. Above, the ceiling of the Great Hall was formed like the night sky, the occasional burst of magic jolting through it with a fiery glimmer.

Granger leaned over and whispered to him, "Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History."_

Harry nodded absently, looking up at the ceiling as another brief fiery burst danced through it like lightening, and he felt his heart swell with unbidden emotion. _Finally..._

Once they were all gathered at the front of the hall, the professor silently placed a small four-legged stool in front of the students, on top of it a patched, frayed hat. It looked terribly old, and possibly dirty and lice-infested, Harry thought. Suddenly, the hall quieted, their eyes fixed on the hat, causing the first years to watch it intently now, none of them at all prepared for it to open its mouth and sing,

 _"Oh you may not think I'm pretty,  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me._

 _"You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all._

 _"There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be._

 _"You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;_

 _"You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;_

 _"Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;_

 _"Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folks use any means  
To achieve their ends._

 _"So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

Well, Tom certainly hadn't warned him about that.

"So we've just got to try on the hat! I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unrolling a long piece of parchment. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she declared, pausing a moment. "Abbot, Hannah!"

A girl with blonde pigtails stumbled up to the hat, placing it on her head, the hat nearly swallowing her whole face. There was only a moment's pause before –

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table at which were seated the group of students with yellow ties cheered and clapped as Hannah rushed over and sat down.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" it declared once again.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped this time, and several of the students with blue ties stood up to shake hands with Boot as he joined them.

A girl named "Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw as well, and the next girl "Brown, Lavender" was declared, "GRYFFINDOR!" causing the table farthest to the left to explode with loud cheers.

One "Bulstrode, Millicent" went to "SLYTHERIN!" and soon after "Finch-Fletchley, Justin" was declared a Hufflepuff, Gryffindor "Finnigan, Seamus" following.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Harry felt Granger stiffen beside him, but urged her forward with what he hoped was a bright, encouraging smile, and she ran forward, eagerly stuffing the hat over her head.

"GRIFFINDOR!" it shouted about a minute later.

Longbottom was called up soon after, the poor boy looking quite ready to faint before Harry smiled amiably at him. He stumbled up the stairs and clumsily put the hat on. Longbottom's sorting was the longest yet, as it took a few moments longer than Granger's to decide, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Poor Longbottom nearly ran to the Gryffindor table with the hat on.

The next sorting Harry paid mind to was of one "Malfoy, Draco." The hat had barely touched his head before it called, "SLYTHERIN!" Well, that was predictable.

A Moon, a Nott, a Parkinson, two twin Patils, and a Perks followed. Finally, Professor McGonagall called out his name, "Potter, Harry!"

Harry stood up straight, steeling himself and allowing a neutral expression to wash over his face.

" _Harry Potter?_ "

"Did she really just say Harry Potter?"

"Is it _the_ Harry Potter?"

"No way!"

"Look, it's him!"

For a few moments he was caught up in the not-so-hushed whispers, but suddenly, as the smell of musty leather filled his nose and a floppy brown brim shielded his eyes, all the voices died away, all except the only voice that mattered.

 _Well, well well, Mr. Potter, is it?_

* * *

So, will the hat do what Harry wants and just put him in Slytherin? It took me a while to decide...

Anyway, you know what's better than waking up in the morning and finding reviews in my inbox? Not much these days. Seriously, it's pretty much this and chocolate. Canadian winters, midterm marking, and quantum information theory...oh, and I almost forgot, computational algebraic number theory...geeze. So please leave a review!


	14. Anywhere but Slytherin

**Disclaimer:** I'm working on a poem for this. In the meantime, I don't own the following text string.

 **AN:** I'm posting this a day early, because I probably won't be around tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully I didn't shatter anyone's dreams of waiting until Sunday to read this.

* * *

 **Chapter 14: Anywhere but Slytherin**

 _Well, well, well, Mr. Potter is it?_

Despite the fact that he had been warned by Tom ahead of time, Harry started a bit at the voice in his head. _Yes sir, that's me._

The hat chucked a bit. _No need for pretense here, Mr. Potter, it's just you and I._

 _Then you should call me Harry._

 _Very well then Harry, let's take a look here...oh._

 _What?_

 _You've got some pretty strong occlumency shields up, haven't you boy?_

 _Oh, right, those._

 _Yes, those._ He could hear the hat's amusement. _Well, you'll have to remove them if you want me to sort you._

Harry grimaced. _Can't you sort me even if I keep them up?_

 _I'm afraid not, Harry, I need to see your whole mind if I am to sort you properly. It's all about impressions._

 _How about you just put me in Slytherin and be done with it?_

 _Slytherin, eh? Why so eager to be sorted into Slytherin?_

 _Well, I suppose it's probably just the place for me, you see?_

 _That was a non-answer if I ever heard one._

 _Sorry._

 _You should be! You're making this very difficult for me, Harry._

 _I really am sorry._

 _Tell me, Harry, why are you so reluctant to take these shields down?_

 _I'm just...very uncomfortable with the idea of someone rifling through my mind._ Which he was. Not even Tom could see his thoughts and memories.

 _And may I ask why that is?_

 _I...I don't trust you._

 _Well, at least you're honest._

 _I try to be, whenever possible._

 _See, that's not a very Slytherin trait._

 _If you say so, but still, can you just sort me into Slytherin?_

 _I'm afraid not, Harry. I can't do that without taking a look in your head._

 _There are other people waiting to be sorted. We're being rude by making them wait._

 _And whose fault is that?_

Harry grit his teeth. _Everybody has a right to privacy. I'm exercising that right._

 _Harry..._

 _Forcing me to reveal my private thoughts to you is immoral, and I don't feel bad at all about refusing._

The hat sighed.

 _If I threatened you, would you just let me go where I please?_

 _Threaten me?_

 _I could set you on fire. I'm very good at setting things on fire._

The hat chuckled. _I'm afraid, Harry, that that's not possible. There are many charms placed on me to prevent that very thing from happening. I doubt anything less than fiendfyre could destroy me. You're hardly the first student to threaten me with violence._

 _I had a feeling, but it was worth a try._

The hat chuckled. _You're quite clever, aren't you Harry?_

 _I try to be._

 _Now, listen Harry, what I see in your head is between you and me. I'm not allowed to say anything to anyone._

 _Not even the Headmaster?_

 _Not even the Headmaster._

 _Even if it's something bad or dangerous?_

 _My, Harry! What sort of secrets are you keeping in that little head of yours?_

My _secrets._

 _Indeed. Well, I assure you, Harry, whatever I see, good or bad, remains between us._

 _That doesn't mean much when I've already said I don't trust you._

 _Look at it this way, Harry. I've seen the minds of every witch and wizard that's attended Hogwarts – the good and the bad. But I've never said anything about what I've seen in their minds, even if it would have meant preventing something terrible. You'd think that a lot of bad things could have been prevented by my knowledge, but they haven't been._

 _That's a very general statement and I don't have a way to verify it._

 _I sorted the boy who would become Lord Voldemort._

Harry froze. Did the hat know something...?

 _I knew exactly what he was from the beginning, but I said nothing, and he was not stopped before it was too late, as you yourself can attest to._

Harry took a deep breath. _You're really not going to let me leave until I lower my shields, are you?_

 _Not a chance._

 _Fine...you have ten seconds._

 _1_

 _2_

 _3_

 _4_

 _5_

 _6_

 _7_

 _8_

 _9_

 _10_

 _I hope that was satisfactory._

There was a pause.

 _Indeed Harry, indeed. But now I have to decide where to put you. Hmmm...let's see. Definitely brave, honourable, strong sense of responsibility – all good Gryffindor traits. Intelligent, clever, eager to learn...you'd fit well in Ravenclaw I think. Hardworking like a Hufflepuff, incredibly loyal too...but only to very few. Hufflepuff is a good option. And Slytherin...I see what you mean. Very determined and resourceful, willing to do what it takes to accomplish your goals. And my, you are ambitious, aren't you?_

 _So...what you're saying is...I belong in all the houses?_

 _Now hold on, give me a moment. You certainly have traits that would make you a good candidate for any one of the Hogwarts Houses, but that's not all there is to it. I'm supposed to figure out where you_ belong _, not merely which house suits your personality._

 _Ok, I suppose that makes sense._

 _Now, let's see...you're not particularly good with making friends, are you? You have serious trust issues, young man. So not Hufflepuff, I think. Most of the children in Hufflepuff have good social skills, and a naturally developed sense of empathy. You have neither._

 _That's not very nice. I spend a lot of time on my own, so I can't speak for my social skills, but I'm very empathetic. Trust me, I feel bad for people all the time. It's very inconvenient, sometimes._

The hat chuckled. _That's sympathy, not empathy, Harry. I will not deny that you have a sense of empathy, and_ _it would seem that you pride yourself on this empathy, however underdeveloped it is -_

 _Hey!_

 _\- but it's not natural, is it? You don't have an instinctual understanding of others' emotions - you've had to develop this knowledge consciously._

 _Ok, I guess that's fair enough._

 _Now then, you're idealistic, but not rash, and you're willing to overlook evildoing if it serves a purpose...you're a quiet, unassuming chap most of the time too, aren't you? Probably not Gryffindor then. You need to have a forceful personality to stand out there, which you most certainly do not have. The subtler aspects of yourself that you value so deeply wouldn't be appreciated there. Ravenclaw would be a good fit. Ravenclaws tend to be more reclusive, quiet, and enjoy reading and learning above all else._

 _That sounds like me,_ Harry admitted.

 _Indeed...although...you don't value knowledge for the sake of knowledge, and that is a fundamental Ravenclaw trait. Still, I'll keep that one in mind. And as for Slytherin...well, Harry, for a boy so talented, you're very modest and kind...innocent, I might almost say. I'd feel a bit bad, sorting you into the house of vipers. There is no place for those who lack conviction in Slytherin House._

 _I don't lack conviction!_

 _Fair enough, but I'm sure you understand how your quietness and modesty could be interpreted as such, especially by other children._

 _...I suppose so._

 _Slytherin values ambition, which you seem to have plenty of. Resourcefulness, cunning, and cleverness - these Slytherin traits you most certainly have. And despite loyalty being a Hufflepuff trait, loyalty to those who have earned loyalty is valued in Slytherin. But despite all that...I'm still not quite sure it's the house for you._

 _Why's that?_

 _Well, for the same reason I won't put you in Gryffindor, actually. Now, don't tell anyone I said this, but Slytherin and Gryffindor are probably the two houses that have the most in common, Harry. Both are exceedingly proud, and while Slytherin values cunning where Gryffindor values bravery, children in both houses tend to flock to those with strong personalities and talent. In both Slytherin and Gryffindor, there are leaders, and then there are followers. You are neither._

 _You don't think I have a strong personality?_

 _Oh, quite the contrary. But it is subtle, kind...and subtlety and kindness are often interpreted as weakness...though they most certainly are not._

 _So what you're saying now is...I don't belong in any of the houses?_

The hat chuckled at that. _Don't worry Harry. We'll find the house that is right for you. Now, tell me, what is it that_ you _want?_

 _I told you, I want -_

 _You told me to sort you into Slytherin, but that wasn't your idea, was it? Oh, don't panic, I don't know who put that idea in your head, but I'm sure someone did. This is about you, Harry, and your best interests._

 _Believe me, it's in my best interest to do as I'm told and get sorted into Slytherin._

The hat sighed. _Let me put it this way. What do you hope to accomplish at Hogwarts, Harry? Why are you here?_

 _Well, to learn._

 _But to what end?_

Good question.

 _I...well, everyone expects things of me. They keep saying that I have great things ahead of me, that I have a lot of potential. And then there's my parents...my dad was an auror and my mum was brilliant – I need to make them proud too, even if they're not here to see it._

 _An honourable goal._

 _I want to make everyone happy, everyone proud, but I'm always afraid that by making one person proud of me, I'll earn disappointment from another._

 _And how do you intend to deal with these expectations and fears, Harry?_

Harry didn't even have to think about it. He'd already decided this long ago, back when he bared his soul in the church graveyard of Godric's Hollow.

He took a deep breath. _I'm going to prove them all wrong._

 _Oh?_

 _They think I'll be great, but I'll be better than they thought possible. Everyone will forget their expectations, because I'll surpass all of them. My parents gave everything for me, and I want to pay them back, by using everything they gave me and becoming the best I can possibly be. I want to become a great wizard. The greatest. The greatest to ever live. That's my dream._

 _..._

 _Does that...help...at all?_

 _Indeed it does, Harry, indeed it does._

 _So...?_

 _So, I believe you might be right. I too think we can expect truly amazing things from you, Harry Potter, and I believe I'd be remiss to put you anywhere but SLYTHERIN!_

Harry stifled a sigh of relief as he passed the hat to a very surprised Professor McGonagall, and allowed a polite smile to cross his face as he walked over to the Slytherin table, from which was emanating a scattered and cautious applause. The expressions on their faces could not be considered anything short of shock, and it was clear that none of them expected this, none of them at all.

He sat down between Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis, and vaguely registered their gobsmacked expressions.

Meanwhile, Malfoy glared at him. "You said your name was Tom Evans!" he hissed.

Harry smiled innocently at him. "I lied."

The Davis girl snickered beside him as they watched his face go red, and Nott stared at him with undisguised fascination.

A few moments later, the sorting ended with "Zabini, Blaise," who was sorted into Slytherin as well.

As soon as Zabini sat down beside Malfoy, Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet, shimmering purple and gold robe billowing out as he opened his arms welcomingly, beaming brilliantly at the students from behind his glittering half-moon spectacles.

"Welcome," he announced in a happy, warm voice. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

He clapped his hands, and immediately a scrumptious-looking feast materialized on the long tables. It was less than a moment before all the left over excitement from the sorting morphed into hunger.

Harry's eyes remained fixed on the Headmaster, though. "So that's Albus Dumbledore..."

A boy across the table snickered. "A right nutter, that one."

To his right, Draco sneered. " _My_ father says that every year Albus Dumbledore remains Headmaster, Hogwarts suffers for it."

Beside him on his left, an older boy spoke up. "I have to agree. He has no respect for tradition and pureblood society. He caters only to the halfbloods and muggleborn students."

Harry shook his head absently. "Does that really matter? He's one of the most powerful wizards alive...perhaps _the_ most powerful. He defeated _Lord Grindewald_ single-handedly. He must be an incredible dueler."

Millicent Bulstrode snorted. "You have a lot to learn, Potter."

Harry smiled. "I know. That's why I'm here."

Harry drowned the conversation out from there, having cast a weak disillusionment charm over himself with a whisper in an attempt to eat in peace, and be left to his own musings. Every so often, he would glance at the staff table, working from left to right, scrutinizing the faculty and committing their faces, garb, and demeanor to memory. These were the powerful witches and wizards Tom had warned him about. These were the people who would be watching over him, acknowledging every triumph and every blunder, for the next seven years.

It was interesting, watching them all. The nearly limbless professor, the stern Professor McGonagall, the cheery, grandfatherly Headmaster - they all had their own profiles, their own habits and mannerisms and smiles and frowns. It was a fascinating and enjoyable exercise in observation, or at least it was until he locked eyes with one Professor Severus Snape, and suddenly felt a great deal of guilt. The poor man...Tom really was very cruel to him...making him talk about his mother and then obliviating him after. He didn't seem like a very pleasant person, but Harry knew no one deserved to be treated like that.

His musings soon came to an end, though, because as his gaze traveled further to the right, he was suddenly seized by the overwhelming sensation of a pulsing pain in his scar. Immediately, his hand flew up to his face and he scrunched his eyes shut. Was Tom returning? No, it was too early for that. He had at least another 2 hours. He glanced up at the head table again, eyes resting on the turban-wearing figure beside the Potions Master.

"Potter...are you alright?"

Harry opened his eyes to see everyone in the immediate vicinity staring at him. Apparently, his disillusionment charm didn't hold up under the pain.

He steadied his breathing. "Yes, I...say, who is that man sitting beside Professor Severus Snape?"

"Oh, that's Quirrell, our Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. He just got back from Albania."

Harry nodded slowly. "Albania..."

"I heard he used to be the _Muggle Studies_ professor," Parkinson sniffed disdainfully.

"Muggle studies?" Harry wondered aloud, "What's that?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," an older boy across the table said, curling his lip in disgust. "It's a class that studies muggles – a class no self-respecting Slytherin would take."

Harry's eyebrows went up.

"What do _you_ think about muggles, Potter?" Malfoy spoke up with a yet another sneer on his face (indeed, Harry was starting to believe this was his default expression), obviously expecting him to come to the muggles' defence.

He'd have to disappoint him.

"I want nothing to do with them," he said candidly and without malice.

"And why's that?" Malfoy egged him on, obviously not able to take a hint.

Harry sighed. "Because I don't like them."

Malfoy sneered at him _once again_ , but didn't continue the conversation.

Meanwhile, Theodore Nott looked at him curiously.

"That's a strange thing for the Boy Who Lived to say," he commented passively.

Harry swallowed the turkey he was chewing. "Is it?"

Nott nodded slowly. "One would expect one of your background to be more...sympathetic to the muggles."

Harry had to laugh a bit at that. He wasn't mocking Nott; it was just a funny thing to say. "My background? What could you possibly know about my background?"

"Your parents -"

"I don't remember them," Harry interrupted, not rudely. "It's just me, really. I have no background."

Nott looked at him appreciatively. "Fair enough."

"You have to have a background," Bulstrode interrupted suddenly, pointedly, " _Somebody_ raised you."

Not really, Harry could not help but think. Well, Tom, of course, but he couldn't very well answer ' _the Dark Lord.'_ No, that wouldn't go over very well, he imagined.

"I lived in someone's house and ate someone's food. Why does it matter whose house and whose food it was?" Harry asked frankly.

And finally, everyone started to take the hint. Harry Potter _didn't_ want to talk about himself.

* * *

"Over the next seven years, this place will be your home, and the people you see gathered around you, your family. Your allegiance now lies with Slytherin House, and your fellow Slytherins.

"You will endeavour to live up to the ideals of our founder, Salazar Slytherin, and personify Cunning, Ambition, and Fraternity. This is what sets us apart from the other houses. While in Hufflepuff loyalty and friendship is idolized, in Slytherin we are bound by a loyalty born of duty and fellowship. While in Gryffindor boldness and bravery are valued above all, in Slytherin we observe and analyse before we act, and are bold when it is within our power to be bold, and brave when it is demanded of us to be brave. While in Ravenclaw knowledge for the sake of knowledge is exalted, in Slytherin, your knowledge will serve to further your ambitions and the ambitions of your housemates.

"Purity, tradition, and greatness are all words synonymous with Slytherin. Uphold our traditions, value purity, and strive to be great – and you will indeed be the perfect Slytherin.

"Camaraderie is important in this house. You will settle your grievances here, in the common room, and show only solidarity to in the eyes of the rest of Hogwarts. Winning points will put you in good standing with your housemates, and loosing them will be to your shame. Remember that the points you gain or lose do not belong to you; they belong to your house.

"Now, we are standing right now in the Slytherin Common Room, which is open for your use at any time. We ask that you behave respectfully and read the atmosphere before starting any games or...lively discussions. Behind you and to your right is the passage to the boys' dorms, and to the left is the girls'. You will share these rooms with your yearmates for the remainder of your time at Hogwarts. We ask that you respect the privacy of your fellow Slytherins, and do not engage in obtrusive behaviour.

"Finally, should you need anything, seek out one of the prefects in our fifth, sixth, or seventh year dorm rooms, and we will address your needs. For anything we are unable to help you with, you can go to our Head of House, Professor Severus Snape. Although...I would encourage you not to bother him needlessly. He's a...busy man.

"Now, unless you have any questions, you are dismissed."

Immediately after Hortense Rowland had finished her speech, Harry slipped away, down the hall to where his dorm was supposed to be. Once he had disappeared from the common room, he broke into a run, and located the restroom right away. Locking the door behind him, he quickly cast a _silencio_ on himself before he fell to his knees, screaming. Tom had returned.

As always it was an excruciating process that took way too long; it felt like his head was being ripped apart and then squeezed back together by a vice, and he could practically feel his nerves on fire with the violent, electric power pulsating beneath his skull. As usual, he was tasting blood in his mouth by the time the pain started to let up. Not pleasant at all.

Once the pain had finally died down, Harry shakily rose to his feet and washed the blood on his face, and after he finished cleaning himself up, he stumbled into his dorm room, rubbing his head as he took a moment to appreciate the decor.

Everything was very _green –_ the upholstery of the furniture, the walls, the bedding, the faint moonlight shimmering through the lake water resting above the room's glass ceiling; literally, everything. Lucky for him, he liked green, and it all matched his eyes to boot.

Eventually, his eyes traveled to one of the paintings on the wall, of two snakes, one black, one white, slithering through the grass together.

 _:Look! Look! A new child!:_

He smiled tenderly. : _Oh, Hello.:_

The snakes moved, then, raising their heads to look at him. : _A new child!:_

Harry nodded. : _I just got here.:_

 _:Will you be staying?:_

 _:For the next seven years.:_

Suddenly, a sound interrupted him, and he looked behind him to see Theodore Nott staring at him with wide eyes.

"Are you alright, Nott? You look a bit pale."

"Were you...talking to those snakes?"

Harry blinked. "Well, yes. All the portraits talk, don't they?"

"Potter," Nott said slowly, carefully, "The snakes in the portraits don't talk, they _hiss_."

Harry froze. "Oh, I see." He paused, his puzzled face morphing into one of pure dejection. "Well, I'm sorry you had to see that." He took out his wand.

"Potter, what are you -"

"Just relax. I've never done the memory charm before, so I don't want to mess it up. I'd hate to do any permanent damage."

Nott's eyes went wide and he gaped at him, before whipping out his own wand.

" _Expelliarmus,"_ Harry said instantly, catching Nott's wand in his hand. "Please don't fight back. I don't want to hurt you."

Nott went pale with fear. "Wait, wait," he pleaded, "I swear I won't say anything. I swear it. Please, don't obliviate me. You can trust me, Potter. I know how to keep a secret."

Harry frowned, conflicted. Tom would be _furious_ with him. He was conspicuously pain free at the moment, but he could already feel anticipatory pain burning in his scar. These things were so much scarier knowing that Tom was watching him. Nott was a liability – a very serious liability. Tom had been very clear that Harry's parseltongue abilities might end up being the only thing Dumbledore needed to lead him to the truth – he couldn't risk anyone finding out so early. But...if he _did_ try to obliviate Nott, and he failed, or was caught...then he would have to explain why he tried to remove the memories of his dormmate on his very first day at Hogwarts. It was a gamble, either way.

He looked up at Nott, who was still staring at him with fear in his eyes. Harry frowned. Nott was near the top of his list of potential friends; he rather liked the boy, and certainly didn't want to hurt him...he'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time...and really, it was Harry's mistake. He should have known better than to strike up a conversation with the snakes, even if they started it. Poor Nott...it was his first day at Hogwarts, too. He didn't deserve this, not at all. No, Harry decided, if anyone would suffer for his mistake, it would be him. If Nott betrayed him...then he would just have to live with the consequences.

Harry sighed and put his wand back in his pocket, before handing Nott's back to him.

Nott still didn't say a word, still quite stunned.

Harry looked at him earnestly. "You _can't_ tell anyone. No one can know. If people find out...I'll be in a lot of trouble. So...please understand that I don't want to hurt you...but if you say anything at all, you _will_ regret it," he finished sadly.

Nott nodded frantically. "No one will know. I swear."

Harry nodded back curtly.

And not a moment too soon, because as soon as they finished speaking, the other four boys came barging into the room, but immediately stopped short, no doubt reading the tension in the air.

Malfoy looked between them haughtily with a raised eyebrow.

Harry cast one more glance at Nott, but ignored all the others as he retreated behind the curtains of his bed.

The last thing his dormmates heard was " _muffliato_."

* * *

 _:I shouldn't let you sleep for a week.:_

Harry grimaced, rubbing his forehead. _:You knew I'd end up here, you knew about the portraits - why didn't_ you _say anything?:_

The pain intensified, and Harry winced, gritting his teeth.

 _:Well I truly am sorry, Harry, that I did not attempt to account for your severe lack of sense and inform you of something that is completely obvious.:_

 _:You're...apologizing to me?:_

 _:No! You stupid, stupid child.:_

 _:I know, I'm sorry! I already said so! It's done now though, isn't it? And it's not like we were going to keep it a secret forever...someone was going to find out eventually, after all.:_

 _:Then perhaps you should just kill the little cretin and be done with it - he will die eventually, after all.:_

 _:That's not what I meant.:_

 _:That's exactly what you meant. How many times must I tell you not to speak without considering your words first?:_

 _:At least a few more times, probably.:_

 _:Insufferable child.:_

 _:At least I didn't mess anything else up.:_

 _:I will be the judge of that. Tell me, what transpired in my absence?:_

 _:What do you want to know?:_

 _:Everything.:_

 _:Don't you trust me, Tom?:_

 _:I trust no one.:_

Harry pouted. _:Fine. Well, I got on the train early, like you said, and I tried all the spells in my diary -:_

 _:Did they work?:_

Harry looked indignant, at that. _:Of course they did. I also tried out the first chapter of my charms book, too. I managed all of those, too, in case you were wondering.:_

 _:Are you under the impression that I owe you congratulations for this?:_

Harry huffed. _:I started the second chapter too. Anyway, I realized I couldn't practice them on my own, so I recruited help.:_

Tom raised an eyebrow.

 _:Ron Weasley, the youngest boy in the Weasley family, asked to sit with me. I...lied about my name, but I think we're still on good terms.:_

 _:Did you meet anyone else?:_

 _:Draco Malfoy, I think he's Lucius Malfoy's son, I met him, but he was under the impression that I was a muggleborn, and dismissed me immediately.:_

Tom sent him a withering look. _:And how did he fall under that impression?:_

 _:I may have introduced myself as Tom Evans. He found out my real name later, of course, and he's still rather cross with me, I think.:_

 _:Well, I hope you had your fun, because in a few days you'll be regretting it.:_

 _:You think so?:_

 _:I have no doubt that Draco Malfoy is a self-righteous, entitled little devil just like his father and grandfather before him.:_

Harry grimaced. _:...splendid.:_

 _:Indeed. Do enjoy the fruits of your labour. I trust they will be appropriately bitter.:_

 _:Right. Anyway, I met Neville Longbottom, in passing, and a girl named Hermione Granger, who I'm 80 percent sure is a muggleborn, which is odd, with a first name like Hermione...but I spoke to no one else on the train.:_

 _:And after the sorting?:_

 _:I had a short conversation with Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis, and spoke in passing with Blaise Zabini, Milicent Bulstrode, and Daphne Greengrass.:_

 _:Thaddeus Nott was one of my original Death Eaters. He was one of the few who managed to stay out of Azkaban without pleading the imperius curse...he always was good at covering his tracks. I by no means approve of your carelessness, but it was for the best that his son was the one to discover your secret. If he is anything like his father, he'll keep his mouth shut.:_

 _:He seemed pretty agreeable about the whole thing.:_

 _:That is because you terrified him.:_

 _:I really didn't mean to.:_

 _:This is for the best as well, Harry. If Thaddeus Nott is anything like the man I knew, then his son is no stranger to fear. He will know what to do with it.:_

 _:What's that supposed to mean?:_

Tom ignored him. _:The Zabinis and the Greengrasses are both very wealthy pureblood families. Remain on amiable terms with those two.:_

 _:I don't need money, Tom.:_

 _:Don't argue. I had little association with the Bulstrode and Davis families, so do what you will with those two.:_

Harry nodded slowly. _:...right. Oh, and there was one more thing, about the Welcoming Feast...:_

 _:Which is?:_ Tom hissed impatiently.

 _:Professor Dumbledore, he specifically asked us not to go up to the third floor corridor. He told us we might die a most painful death if we did.:_

 _:Did he now?:_

Harry nodded. _:Right before sending us off.:_

 _:...curious. Very curious indeed.:_

 _:That's what I thought.:_

 _:Did he say anything more?:_

 _:No, I think he fancies being a bit more on the mysterious side.:_

 _:Yes, the old fool was always annoyingly indecipherable.:_

 _:I kind of like it,:_ Harry said thoughtfully, and then yawned. _:Can I sleep now? I'm tired.:_

Tom sighed. _:No more blunders, Harry. Or the both of us could meet an early grave.:_

 _:Aren't all graves early?:_

 _:Indeed they are.:_

 _:Are you afraid of death, Tom?:_

 _:Goodnight, Harry.:_

* * *

And that's a wrap. I really did consider putting Harry in Hufflepuff - I think his loyalty toward Voldemort (well, more to Tom Riddle, really) is one of his defining traits. Nevertheless, Ravenclaw and Slytherin seemed to be the main contenders (though, Gryffindor would have been funny, I think). Anyway, though Harry's a bit of a nerd, he's a Slytherin at heart. Kind of like me...everyone thinks I'm a Ravenclaw, but every test I take sorts me into Slytherin. Makes you wonder...

Anyway, next up, "Severus Snape (Part 2)"

Thanks for reading, and please do review. Reviews are kind of like electricity to us authors (I was going to say gas or fuel, but I'd rather imagine myself as an electric car).


	15. Severus Snape (Part 2)

**Disclaimer:** still don't own Harry Potter. Figures.

 **AN1:** A couple of people asked why Harry didn't tell Voldemort about his pain at the feast. Good of you to point that out, because I honestly forgot about it. At the moment I'm currently debating on whether to go back and add it in, or just let you assume that it slipped his mind and Voldemort finds out later (namely during some of the events outlined in this chapter). Probably the latter, because let's face it, I am trying to become a mathematician, and mathematicians are notoriously lazy.

 **AN2:** Lastly, and arguably most importantly, I wanted to thank everybody who's given me feedback about this story. It's been overwhelmingly positive, and while that makes me awfully suspicious, it also makes me very happy and thankful to have such gracious readers. So, if you're one of the people who have taken the time to leave a review, I want you to know that you've made this overworked and underappreciated grad student very happy, and I hope I can keep repaying you with material you will enjoy :)

* * *

 **Chapter 15: Severus Snape (Part 2)**

Harry Potter. James Potter's son. A Slytherin.

He would have laughed at the irony were it not for the fact that he would have to look after the boy for the next seven years. He had counted on keeping an eye on the Boy Who Lived, of course, but from a distance – lending silent aid and keeping him out of harm's way whenever possible; he had hoped to minimize his contact with the Potter brat by any means necessary. But now...it was unavoidable. He was his _Head of House –_ why couldn't Minerva have gotten stuck with the Potter boy? Or Flitwick, or Sprout...anyone but him?

He saw the Headmaster subtly grinning at him with a twinkle in his eyes.

Damn that old man. He'd enjoy this, every second of it.

Seven years as Potter's Head of House; seven years of dealing with the spawn of that wretched Gryffindor, no doubt spoiled by the fame and fortune he was born into. His guardians had no doubt...

Wait, guardians? Who did Albus send the boy to, again? No, it didn't matter. No matter where he'd grown up, what he'd been taught, or how he'd been raised, the Boy Who Lived could not possibly be immune to the fame and fortune his parents had left him with. Like Potter, he was no doubt another wealthy, entitled brat who would stop at nothing to make the next seven years of his life positively miserable. Causing trouble left and right, losing points, blowing up potions – he could see it all, every last debacle. It was going to be painful. So painful.

He took a deep breath. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, he told himself. Yes, he reminded himself, the child was rich and famous, but Potter had had no input into the raising of his son, who had been sorted in not just _a_ different house, but _the_ different house, so to speak. Perhaps he didn't share much more than a face, poor eyesight, and that untamable mop of hair with the late Potter Sr. After all, if the boy was anything like his father, he would have ended up in Gryffindor for sure. Perhaps he took after Lily, more, he dared to hope. Although...Lily would have never ended up in Slytherin either. Ravenclaw, maybe, but definitely not Slytherin. No, the boy was a complete enigma. Any assumptions he planned to make about the boy flew out the window the moment he failed to be sorted into Gryffindor. Only time would tell, he supposed, how wrong those assumptions would have been. For now, he could only watch.

* * *

"Oh, Severus!"

He groaned inwardly. Professor McGonagall was the last person he wanted to talk to – he could already guess the topic up for discussion.

"Yes, Minerva?"

"How have classes been going thus far?"

He sighed. "Come, Minerva, we both know what you really want to talk about."

A smile crept across her lips.

"Out with it," he said, resigned.

"Now, now, Severus, no need to be so sour. I just wanted to tell you about my first class with our young Mr. Potter."

"Oh did you now?" He didn't even bother feigning surprise.

"And Severus, I do believe he will be a genius at transfiguration, just like his father!"

"And how would you know that, Minerva? It was _one class_." He could not stop some ire from leaking out of his voice.

But Minerva only smiled at him smugly. "Indeed it was. _But_ he showed a keen interest in learning advanced human transfiguration, and asked some very insightful questions in class. But most significantly – he managed to transfigure the matchstick into a perfect silver needle in _seven_ _minutes_."

Severus could not help but be surprised at that. "Seven minutes?"

"Yes, and I was counting! I attribute his success to the fact that he took a unique alchemic approach to his understanding of the task. He asked questions about molecules, Severus, _molecules_!"

"It's not surprising that he'd have heard the word, Minerva, if he was raised with muggles."

"But Severus, he knew about quarks and particle spins!"

Again, Severus's eyes widened. He made a small huffing sound.

"Besides, I would think that the fact that he was raised with muggles wouldn't have much bearing on his knowledge -"

Ah, so he was right; the boy _was_ raised with muggles.

"- after all, I highly doubt that _Petunia Dursley_ put much thought into her nephew's intellectual development."

Petunia Dursley?

"Petunia...who?"

"Dursley, Severus. His Aunt."

The boy was raised by _Petunia Evans_?

"May I ask how that came to pass?"

Minerva shrugged helplessly. "It was Albus's idea. He said the boy needed to be with his family, away from it all. Something about wards. But I told him, they're the worst sort of muggles."

Severus had to agree.

* * *

Every time Harry Potter sat down for lunch, he had a book in his hand. This was a habit Severus had taken notice of, though it was still less than a week since the boy had arrived at Hogwarts. For the first few days it had been what he recognized as the first year Charms text, but as of a couple of days ago, that had been replaced by a massive reference book about twice the size of the boy's head. Either the boy was showing off, or was curious to the point of being obsessive. Neither possibility boded well.

There were other things he noticed, as well. The scrawny boy didn't eat much, and typically spent his meals reading rather than eating. He rarely participated in conversations unless addressed directly, but whenever he did speak, he did so with a very polite, deliberately pleasant look on his face. The boy was... _closed off_.

And there was the matter of Theodore Nott, who Potter had taken to following around, oddly enough. They always showed up for meals together, though they were never exchanging words when they did. For the most part, the two boys did their own thing, Potter reading and Nott chatting with Malfoy, Davis, and Greengrass more often than not. Nott would glance at Potter regularly, and Potter at him, but rarely would words pass between them. He honestly had no idea what to make of it, especially when he noticed that the few times when Potter _had_ struck up a conversation with Nott, the other boy was _startled_ to the point of actually seeming genuinely frightened for a few moments. Had their behaviour been different, he would have assumed that Nott was a victim of Potter's bullying, but the fact was that after the initial shock of being addressed by Potter wore off, Nott seemed quite happy to talk with him.

Very odd. Very odd indeed.

* * *

He stopped to help Professor Flitwick pick up some papers he dropped in the second floor corridor. In passing he recognized the names of his first year Slytherin students on the papers.

"Assigning the first years essays already, Filius?" he asked as he handed the papers back to the shorter man.

The half-goblin smiled wryly. "Oh no, I'm not you, Severus. I've decided to assign some shorter reports for the first few weeks; this week I asked them to find a charm in this year's curriculum and say a few words on the wand movements and the origins of the incantations. They were very well done, for the most part."

Severus nodded, pleased to hear it.

The smaller man chuckled a bit. "Mr. Potter chose _occulus reparo._ I think that was a hint – his spectacles seem to be in bad shape. Perhaps I'll teach them that one earlier than I originally intended."

Severus quirked an eyebrow. "Indulging the boy already?"

Filius smiled. "Well, he _did_ write an exceptional report. He went so far as to research the relationship between the _reparo_ charm and certain transfiguration spells. Very quick, that one. I would have liked to have him in my house. But then again, I would have liked to have had Lily Evans too."

Severus grimaced at that.

"He certainly reminds me a great deal of her," Professor Flitwick continued obliviously, "Such sweet boy. Very respectful and polite for a boy his age. He thanked me after our first lecture, you know? Quite enthusiastically. She did the same, I remember...had that very same look in her eye."

Yes, Severus could not help but think, that _did_ sound like Lily.

* * *

His face was cold and stony as he scanned the dark classroom full of first year students – the bane of his existence. Gryffindors and Slytherins...why they paired those two houses together in _his_ class, he'd never know. Every year, he stood at the front of his dark, dingy classroom, breathing in the same sweet fumes, a medley of a thousand herbs and infusions, and every year he experienced the same vivid sensations of introducing a new generation of Hogwarts students to his beloved science, tainted by the same furious swell of whirling regrets. Every year he was reminded of the same sequence of bad decisions stacked upon bad decisions in his past, the mistakes that, every year, lead him to that same place in front of a crowd of oblivious eleven year olds.

His voice was unwavering as he called role, robotic as he monotonously read the names off the list. That is, until he reached that one name that seemed to jut out of the page like an ugly scar.

"Ah, yes," he could not help himself, "Harry Potter. Our new – _celebrity_."

At that instant, the boy met his eyes, an unrecognizable shadow falling over his face.

He continued to the bottom of his list, and, after a tenuous silence designed to intimidate, began as he did every year.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in little more than a whisper, but he knew they were hanging on to every word. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses ... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper on death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." Not bloody likely.

James Potter's son was still staring him with unreadable eyes, utterly fixated on him. It took everything in him not to react. What _was_ the boy thinking? How could a child that age be so _blank_? It was maddening. Was he haughty or shy? Polite in an attempt to manipulate or be kind? So many questions, so few answers.

"Potter!" he called harshly. He really couldn't help himself; he _needed_ to see how the boy would react. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

He watched, secretly amused, as the boy's eyes widened in comical shock. His amusement nearly soured when the boy's expression morphed into one of...resignation? Understanding? But the amusement returned and relief washed over him when the boy quickly returned to being puzzled.

"Um..." the boy started, looking a bit shaken up. "Asphodel, powdered, and wormwood...wormwood...worm...a...something that puts you to sleep? Some kind of sleeping potion, sir?"

He stared intently at the bespectacled boy. It had been a cheap shot - that was a NEWT level potion - but the boy, if a little ineloquent, performed well under pressure. "Indeed. Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of the Living Death. Now, let's try again. Where would you look if you told you to find me a bezoar?"

"An apothecary, sir?" the boy replied confusedly.

He narrowed his eyes into a glare, and the boy smiled at him sheepishly.

"Or the stomach of a goat, if the apothecary ran out."

"And what is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Clearly, the boy was gaining confidence, because he answered this time without hesitation. "They're different species from the same genus, sir."

He quirked an eyebrow. So the boy _had_ done the reading, and had successfully risen to his challenge. But the child wasn't gloating; no, he was just _looking_ at him.

He felt something stir inside him as the boy stared up at him hopefully, with shimmering green eyes that were so unmistakably _Lily's_.

"That is correct. 3 points to Slytherin."

* * *

He looked at the sheet in front of him, and then back up at Miss Rowland. "This is all...from this week?"

She grimaced a bit, but nodded curtly.

Eyes trailing down the list, he stopped at:

 _Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter – 5 points each_

He raised an eyebrow. "The Potter brat is already causing trouble, then?"

Hortense looked surprised at the question. "No sir, it was actually Malfoy who started it. From what I've gathered, Potter lied about his name when they first met and implied that he was a...muggleborn student."

Oh? What was Potter playing at?

"Ever since the welcoming feast, Malfoy's been baiting him quite avidly. Yesterday, he tossed a hex at Potter on their way back to the Common Room, but Potter dodged and disarmed him quickly, so it could have been a lot worse...to be honest, I expected him to retaliate but..."

"...but?"

"Well, sir, he just... _smiled_ at Malfoy, and gave his wand back to him."

Severus quirked an eyebrow. So...the Potter brat was arrogant...so arrogant that he did not see Draco Malfoy as any kind of threat. And apparently, that arrogance wasn't completely unfounded.

"Anyway, they both cast spells at each other in front of students from other houses, so I had to dock points, but given the choice, I wouldn't have taken any from Potter."

Severus nodded slowly, taking the information in.

Draco was no doubt humiliated, and there was no way Lucius had raised a humble son; while he'd no doubt bide his time, he'd surely retaliate, and probably in a more _public_ way. The Malfoy boy wouldn't stop, of course, until he managed to get the better of Potter, but given how quick Potter's reflexes apparently were, that might take some time. Until then...

"Honestly, Potter doesn't cause trouble at all. Just the opposite, really. He apologized on Malfoy's behalf, you know? Was exceptionally graceful and polite about it."

"Is that so?"

"It is, sir. Although..."

"Yes?"

"He's...very quiet."

He quirked an eyebrow. "And?"

"Well, for a boy his age he's really...withdrawn. He doesn't talk much, and when he thinks no one is looking...there's nothing. Just nothing on his face. He...sort of reminds me of Avery, in his first year, but worse."

Jordan Avery, the son of Julian Avery...a man with a violent temper and a love for for creative punishments. The former Death Eater had never outright abused his son, to the best of his knowledge, but he'd certainly terrified him quite thoroughly, and that was evident during Avery Jr.'s first year at Hogwarts. The boy had been abnormally detached and introverted...and for Miss Rowland (who had keen observational skills and impeccable instincts) to compare anyone to him...well, that was concerning.

And yet...Petunia Evans was a lot of things, but she certainly wasn't _terrifying._ So apparently something else was making the boy uneasy.

"Worse, you say?"

"Well sir, I wouldn't say he's any quieter than Avery was, and not quite as cautious either, it's just...he always seems fine. Too fine. Too...together for a boy his age. There's something not quite right."

So, he had a potentially psychologically troubled Potter and an angry Malfoy on his hands. Splendid.

"Keep an eye on them."

"Of course, sir."

Merlin help him. He did _not_ want to deal with this.

* * *

"Oh, Severus!"

He turned around to find Poppy Pomfrey hurrying up to him, a worried look on her face.

"Yes, Poppy?"

"It completely slipped my mind the other day, but I had meant to tell you...young Mister Potter was in the hospital wing on Wednesday."

He frowned at her. "Did Draco Malfoy hex him?"

The woman quirked an eyebrow. "No. Is this something I have to look forward to?"

"For both our sakes, let's hope not."

She smiled a bit, but then the worried look returned to her face. "He nearly collapsed in his Defence Against the Dark Arts class."

Severus could not help the surprise that came over his face. "Collapsed? May I ask why?"

The lines on her face grew deeper. "Headache. Apparently, he was holding his forehead for most of the class. When he stumbled over after they were dismissed, Mr. Nott and Miss Davis brought him to me. He was very pale, Severus, and his eyes were bloodshot. He must have been in a great deal of discomfort. I gave him something mild for the pain, and it seemed to help, but I'm worried. Headaches that severe aren't commonplace for eleven-year-olds. And then there was the fact that..."

"Yes?"

"His scar was inflamed."

Severus nodded slowly. That was ...very concerning. "Defence against the Dark Arts?"

The woman nodded.

"I will...inform the Headmaster. In the meantime, should Mr. Potter return to you, feel free to supply him with potions for him to take more regularly."

Poppy nodded again, hesitating before speaking again. "That's not all, Severus."

His eyebrows rose.

"He's...underfed. And by the looks of it, he has been for a long time. After he collapsed, I thought it prudent to do a check up, and when he took off his shirt, I saw his ribs, Severus. He's a small boy, but he shouldn't be _this_ small."

A frown returned to Severus's face. "Is he ill?"

"I didn't do many tests..."

That wasn't like her.

"Because I think I already have an explanation. His wrist and his arm, and a couple of his ribs...they've been broken, and didn't heal properly. It looks like they weren't set correctly. He has a couple of strange scars too, some of them clearly burn marks. I didn't think it possible, but..."

"He's a young boy, Poppy, and boys have a way of damaging themselves. As for the malnutrition...I have noticed that he makes a habit of reading during his meals, and often gets sidetracked."

"Perhaps, but there's an alternative we _do_ need to consider."

"To the best of my knowledge, he lives with his Aunt. She's not a...pleasant person, but is far to squeamish to lay a hand on a child, I would think. It's more likely the injuries were from other children."

"...you're probably right, and he _did_ deny that his family had had any part in it...but he did so too quickly, in my opinion, without even thinking about it, as though on _reflex_. There's something not right here, Severus."

"If you insist...I will take this up with the Headmaster as well."

Pursing her lips, she nodded stiffly. "Please do."

* * *

"Headmaster...you wished to see me?"

"Indeed, Severus. I do hope the term is treating you well thus far."

He tried not to grimace. "As well as ever, Headmaster."

The old man smiled, clearly amused by his answer. "I'm glad to hear it, Severus! Now, I will get to the point; I called you here to ask about Mr. Potter."

Severus sighed. "I...thought as much."

"I admit, I was nearly as surprised as you were, when our young Mr. Potter was sorted into Slytherin. Did you know, Severus, that the Potters were descendants of Godric Gryffindor himself?"

"No, but I'm not at all surprised," Severus grumbled.

The Headmaster chuckled at that. "Indeed, indeed. But see, Severus, the fact that Harry was sorted into Slytherin is just as strange as, for instance, a parselmouth being sorted into Gryffindor. Sortings tend to run in families for a reason, Severus. Many aspects of magic are hereditary, and magic deeply influences our hearts. Cases such as young Harry's, and Sirius Black's, for that matter, are rare in old families like the Blacks and the Potters."

"While this is very fascinating, Headmaster, is there a point you are trying to make?"

"There is. Harry's strange sorting implies that there have been events in the boy's life that have caused his magic and personality to mutate from what it would have been. In other words, Harry Potter seems to have a past that none of us are aware of."

Severus nodded slowly. "Nature versus nurture?"

The elderly man smiled at him. "Quite."

"On the topic of the boy's childhood, Headmaster, I am...curious. Professor McGonagall mentioned to me the other day that the boy was raised by...Petunia."

The Headmaster nodded.

"May I ask why?"

"Simply put, when Lily Potter died, her sacrifice protected Harry from Voldemort's curse, and to this day, her blood and her magic protects him. Petunia's bond with Harry through blood perpetuates Lily's spell, erecting powerful blood wards around their residence in Surrey."

"I see. And you are sure that leaving him there was...wise?"

"Lord Voldemort has been defeated, but not vanquished, Severus, and many of those loyal to him still walk free. It was necessary that the boy be protected, and his mother's sacrifice afforded him a protection that I could not. That none of us could - no wizard or witch that means him harm can enter that home, and I cannot say the same of anywhere else in the world."

"I only ask because there have been...inquiries into his well-being."

"Oh?"

"Poppy believes that he may...be being abused."

The old man frowned. "And how has she come by this belief?"

Severus hesitated. "Apparently, he is underfed, and has several poorly healed injuries."

"There could be many explanations for that, Severus."

"I am aware, and the boy _did_ deny that his family was involved...as would most mistreated children."

"If I didn't know you better, Severus, I'd say you actually care for the boy."

"...I don't. But as his Head of House, it is my responsibility to take into consideration these facts."

The Headmaster tapped his finger on his desk a few times. "If Harry approaches you for help, help him. If proof of his family's alleged mistreatment of him arises, we will look into alternative living arrangements for him. But until such a time...it is crucial that he remain within the reach of those wards when not at Hogwarts, Severus. He must remain there until it is absolutely necessary that he leave. The wards are strong - and there may come a time when they will be his only defence."

"And they are powerful enough that you would condemn a young boy to abuse," Severus stated skeptically.

"Of course not, Severus. But as long as we have no compelling reason to believe Harry is in danger at the hands of his relatives, he will remain with them for his own safety."

Severus nodded very slowly, ignoring the unease coiling in his chest. He scowled. He wasn't worried. Of course not. Certainly not about a _Potter._

"Now, Severus, I must ask, how has young Harry been fairing in Slytherin House thus far?"

Severus could not help the sour look that came over his face. "Is there anything...specific you were wondering about, Headmaster?"

"Well, from what I have heard from the other faculty members, Harry Potter is an intelligent, polite young man who is eager to learn. The picture that has been painted for me is that of a model Hogwarts student, filled with curiosity and showing promise in every aspect of magic. He has managed to impress every member of my staff. He's even managed to charm Minerva quite thoroughly, and we both know what a challenge that is."

"You sound...unconvinced."

The Headmaster smiled grimly. "Not at all. I am convinced that Harry Potter is, as they say, a polite and intelligent young man, but like all of us, Harry Potter cannot be reduced to two words. No one can."

"I must confess, the boy is...not what I expected."

"I cannot say I am surprised at that, Severus."

"Whether he is as arrogant and foolish as his father has yet to be determined, but he is neither loud nor crass, and...does not seem to have the makings of a bully."

"High praise, Severus."

He grimaced. "Apparently he actively participates in his classes, but outside of class the Slytherin prefects refer to him as withdrawn and quiet, and...from what I have seen, this is an _accurate_ assessment. He _doesn't_ stand out except within the realm of academics."

"And his friends?"

"...I am not sure. He seems to spend most of his time with Nott."

"Theodore Nott?"

He nodded. "They sit together in Potions and at the Slytherin table... but if I didn't know better..."

"Yes?"

 _If I didn't know better, I'd say Nott was afraid of him._

"Nothing, Headmaster."

"I see. And, Severus, what are your personal thoughts on Harry?"

"My...personal thoughts?"

"What do you think of his behaviour?"

"It's...not surprising, Headmaster. It's not unusual that a magical child that has been exposed only to muggles would have difficulty making friends. And if his unexplained injuries were dealt on account of bullying, it's would be strange if he was _not_ a little reserved."

"Indeed."

"Summarily, I...think very little of his behaviour, Headmaster."

The elderly man nodded.

"He's nothing special, Albus. I don't believe there's any reason to expend energy speculating on a child's behaviour."

The Headmaster looked at him sharply. "You _must_ keep an eye on the boy, Severus. He might be an innocent child, but he is the only one who can defeat Lord Voldemort."

"Headmaster, do you really think that...?"

"After the break in at Gringotts, Severus, I have no doubt."

"Which reminds me..."

"Yes?"

"Poppy's interactions with the Potter boy came on account of him nearly collapsing in his first Defence against the Dark Arts class. It would appear that he's been suffering from headaches – apparently, his _scar_ was inflamed."

The elderly man's eyes widened, and he looked rather alarmed at that. "Then, Severus, you must keep a close eye on Quirinius as well."

"Of course, Headmaster."

* * *

"I don't want to be a tattle-tale, sir..."

"Out with it, Potter," he snapped.

"It was Malfoy's fault, sir. Neville Longbottom dropped his rememberall in the grass, and Malfoy, upon finding it, decided to hide it instead of return it."

"So you, in your infinite wisdom, decided to _cause a scene,_ humiliate your fellow Slytherin, and nearly get yourself killed."

The boy had the decency to look ashamed at that, but met his eyes nonetheless. "I was under the impression that thievery would not be tolerated at Hogwarts, sir."

Severus stared at him for a long moment, and was, grudgingly, impressed by the fact that the boy did not fidget under his harsh glare.

It was at that moment that Flint chose to knock on his office door.

"Ah, Flint. Good of you to join us."

"Sir? May I ask what this is about?"

"I believe, Flint, that I have found the Slytherin House team a new seeker." He nodded toward a very gobsmacked Harry Potter. As much as he disliked the boy...his skills on a broom, from what he had seen just a few minutes ago, were impeccable. And, it just so happened that Slytherin required a new Seeker this year. As a bonus, this would be a good opportunity to gauge how big the boy's head really was.

Flint stared at the boy appraisingly. "Potter? He's a first year."

Severus smirked a bit. "I'll take care of the technicalities, Flint. Focus on whipping your new seeker into shape before the first game of the season."

Flint smirked back at him. "Of course, sir."

He spared a glance at Potter, who was still gaping at him, and felt some degree of satisfaction at finally getting the better of the boy.

Take that, James Potter. Your son would be winning points for _Slytherin_ at the next Quidditch game.

* * *

I know, I know, the Potters aren't actually related to Godric Gryffindor. Don't worry, it has no further bearing on the plot, I just wanted to get that line about a parselmouth being sorted into Gryffindor in.

Anyway, thank you for reading and don't forget to drop me a review!


	16. Justifiable Violence

**Disclaimer:** I don't on this piece of fiction. I do, however, own some chocolate, which participated in the writing of this piece of fiction.

* * *

 **Chapter 16: Justifiable Violence**

 _:I absolutely forbid it,:_ Tom snapped. Harry didn't realize you could snap in parseltongue, until then.

 _:Tom, I need to get to practice.:_

: _You already went twice, Harry, you had your fun. That's enough now. I will_ not _have you risking your life for a_ game _. Quidditch is dangerous, Harry. People_ die _.:_

 _:It's a school team, Tom.:_

The man in the mirror hissed angrily. : _It doesn't matter! I will_ not _meet my end at the hands of a_ bludger _!:_

 _:You really have no faith in me, do you?:_

 _:Not the point, Harry.:_

"You know, Tom, this could end up furthering those goals you don't want to tell me about. Quidditch players are popular, you said so yourself. Winning games might make my housemates like me more...and I need them to like me, right? You said I need allies. I won't be getting any if they're all so suspicious of me,"he finished with a bit of a scowl.

Pain tickled Harry's scar, and Tom looked a bit indignant.

"Sometimes I think you forget your place, Harry. Do not forget how much you value my guidance."

 _:I know...I'm sorry...:_

"You should not have to play games to garner loyalty. You have other tools at your disposal. Like fear."

"Maybe. But I don't want to be that kind of person. I don't want to hurt people, to scare them."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Harry..."

"When was the last time a Hogwarts student died in a Quidditch game?"

" _..."_

"I thought so." He shook his head, trying to ignore the weakly pulsing pain in his scar. "People are more likely to do what I want if they feel like they owe me. That's something I've known for a long time, and I've never been proven wrong. They may be Slytherins, but they're human too."

"There are other ways of accomplishing this. You do not need to play Quidditch to acquire trust and loyalty. Why must you be so insistent on this?"

Harry sighed. "Tom, my dad played Quidditch, you know? Even if it's for the Slytherin team...I want to make him proud. Just this one thing, Tom, just this one thing. Please."

Tom looked at him for a long moment, disgruntled, and yet...there was something else in his eyes. What it was, he could not tell. "Do what you must."

Harry smiled brilliantly. "Thanks Tom!"

Harry could not keep a grin off his face as he strode down the dungeon corridors with a skip in his steps, the thought of flying again lightening his limbs. Harry _loved_ flying. The crisp wind brushing his face and tousling his hair was invigorating, and being so far above the ground, moving so fast, could only be described as liberating. While Harry was flying he felt _free_ – far above the troubles of his world, with a swift means of escape. And chasing the snitch – it was a challenge without stakes, an exercise in pure physicality.

Tom, on the other hand, hated flying. Well, he didn't hate flying, but he hated Quidditch. Tom was very displeased with his desire to join the Quidditch team, and if it weren't for how impressed Tom had been with him lately, he doubted he would have been allowed to even attend one practice, let alone two, and now a third.

At the beginning of the term, Harry had solemnly decreed that he didn't want Tom to help him with any of his class work; he appreciated Tom's help and everything, but he wanted to succeed at Hogwarts on his own merit. Tom seemed quite pleased with Harry's declaration, and had easily acquiesced, but not without a warning. If Harry didn't do well in his classes, or slacked off, there would be consequences. Which, of course, meant pain. Lots and lots of pain.

So between his desire to make Tom and his parents proud and his aversion to pain, Harry had lots of motivation to apply himself in all his classes, and he was quite pleased with the results. He had quickly surpassed all his classmates, and was almost always the first to accomplish whatever tasks his teachers assigned, with only a few exceptions...just about all of those exceptions occurring courtesy of one Hermione Granger.

Granger was...annoying. Interesting, amusing, but annoying. A know-it-all and teacher's pet of the highest degree, she was clearly used to being the best at everything...and with good reason. The muggleborn witch was both intelligent and skilled, and was always a few steps behind Harry, sometimes overtaking him completely.

Harry continually remained at the top of the class in Charms and Transfiguration, but he was always competing with Granger and Malfoy for first place in Potions - not that that was an easy feat. While Professor Snape seemed to like Malfoy well enough (well, he said 'like', but he really meant 'didn't completely hate'), Harry and Granger were not so lucky - Professor Snape hated them on _principle._ With Granger it was simple; she was a Gryffindor and a know-it-all, two things Professor Snape found incredibly annoying. With Harry, though...it was more complicated. He didn't yell at Harry often - because unlike the other students, he didn't give the Professor something to yell about - but Harry knew that his potions were marked more strictly than anyone else's. Not to mention, Professor Snape insulted his intelligence every chance he got (much to Tom's ire), and liked to call him out in class to answer questions about things they hadn't learnt yet. In a way, Harry appreciated it, because the fact that Professor Snape was so hard on him spurred him on to study Potions even harder...because unlike Granger and Malfoy, Potions didn't come quite as easily to him. On the other hand, Professor Snape's treatment of him saddened him greatly, because deep down, he felt like he deserved it. His Professor certainly didn't remember the visit he'd paid him one year prior, but Harry did, and still felt bad about tricking the man into letting him into his house so Tom could cast unforgivables on him.

Anyway, despite being a Gryffindor, Granger did quite well in Potions, and more academic subjects like History of Magic and Astronomy were still her domain. She was a good writer, and her essays showed as much.

As for Defence against the Dark Arts, Harry had had a slow start due to his headaches; they had been agonizing at first, making it impossible absorb anything class. They'd lessened over time...but it was still concerning. Tom said that he might be reacting to another horcrux in the vicinity, but he didn't really know what to make of the severity of his headaches either. Tom's theory also begged the question as to why Professor Quirrell would have a horcrux with him in the first place. Either way, it didn't really end up mattering, because with the aid of Madame Pomfrey's potions and his carefully crafted, shiny new occlumency shields, he'd pulled ahead to first in the class, an honour previously held by Granger.

So as irritating as he found Granger, he had to admit, she was a worthy rival, and he admired her audacity. Moreover, she seemed to have a kind heart, an eagerness to learn, and a desire to do her best in everything; despite her faults, he really did think quite well of her. He couldn't say the same for his housemates. They all seemed rather put off by the fact that a muggleborn witch was beating them in almost every subject, and Harry found the glances of relief he got every time he beat Granger rather amusing. Slytherins were...funny like that. Many of his housemates were rather snobbish and thought too well of themselves, in his opinion. Most of them were purebloods, and of those many were quite wealthy...which, of course, would not have been a problem were it not for the fact that they occasionally reminded him of the Dursleys and some of his old classmates just a bit too much. Malfoy especially seemed very used to getting what he wanted, and was quite accustomed to certain norms and patterns of behaviour, and didn't appreciate deviations from them. This created a lot of tension between them.

The boy was still sore over Harry's little fib at their first meeting (Harry knew that was going to come back to bite him), and had been trying to hex Harry on a semi-regular basis ever since. Granger and Weasley didn't seem to hold it against him (indeed, Weasley was still quite amused by his name game, and took pleasure in calling 'Harry Dursley!' and 'Tom Evans!' after him in the halls), so Harry was at quite a loss to explain the blonde boy's behaviour. Harry had managed to evade him thus far, and even Malfoy was too honourable (or perhaps just too proud) to hex him in his sleep, so he figured he was safe for now. He really hoped he didn't have to put up with seven more years of this, though. No, that was simply not acceptable. He'd have to mend things with Malfoy eventually, but he wasn't sure how to. Any conflicts he'd had with people in the past had been solved by avoidance, which was not an option here. Moreover, Tom was completely unhelpful because his answer to everything went along the lines of

"Fear breeds respect, and dominance peace."

Harry's other dormmates were a lot more tolerable. Crabbe and Goyle were fairly quiet, which he appreciated; they weren't too bright, and were a bit too thuggish for his liking, but they seemed to be loyal sorts, and they didn't really bother him unless goaded on by Malfoy. Zabini was, like Malfoy, a bit of a spoiled brat, but was not nearly as insufferable, and was much more mature. He was very skilled _socially_ , Harry noticed; the boy exuded confidence and was quick to make friends (rather, friendly acquaintances) with the older students. He also made quick friends of the Slytherin girls in their year. He seemed rather sure of himself around girls, and Harry soon discovered that this was at least partially due to the fact that he lived alone with his mother.

The girls were...confusing. Harry'd never really known any girls before, and he found that he really had to be careful what he said around them. Davis was pretty practically minded, and seemed to have fairly thick skin (incidentally, she was the only half blood in the group), and Greengrass had a good head on her shoulders, seemed pretty smart, and definitely knew what she wanted. But Parkinson and Bulstrode...they were crazy. Bulstrode was inexplicably timid at the strangest of times, and tended to make strange, squeaky, girly noises when amused or startled, and Parkinson...she was just a whole new level of...everything. Snappy, easily offended, pompous, irritable, prone to mood swings - she was everything Harry didn't know how to deal with. They were just so...volatile. Not angry, and for the most part not ill-tempered, just volatile. He didn't understand them at all - and since Harry was perfectly sane, if he didn't understand them at all, they had have a few screws loose, right? As a whole, he'd decided that one of his goals for the year should be to learn to talk to girls without offending them or getting scoffed at. Tom hadn't been much help.

"I wish you luck. I really do."

 _But you're hopeless,_ was the unspoken conclusion. Harry knew he was mocking him.

And then there was Nott. Theodore Nott. The first few weeks following their encounter in their dorm room were tense, and had clearly left Nott unsettled. In fact, the boy was pretty scared of him for the first week. He'd made it clear that he wanted to maintain an amiable relationship with Harry (Harry still wasn't quite sure whether he liked him, or he was just impressed with him), but was easily startled by him, and even stuttered a few times when they spoke, which Harry later learnt was very uncharacteristic of him.

Eventually, though, the guilt wore on Harry just a bit too much, and one evening he took a very alarmed Theodore Nott aside for a little chat.

"So...I realize that we may have gotten off to a rough start..."

He could tell Nott wanted to scoff at that, but refrained.

"And it has occurred to me that it may seem like I've been blackmailing you..."

Another near scoff.

"But I want you to know that that wasn't...I didn't mean for it to come off like that. And I'm sorry. I went about this the wrong way, and I apologize."

Nott blinked, looking somewhat shocked.

"I'm sure you know about the...bad reputation surrounding...people like me, and I have a lot of people watching me...a lot of people who might get the wrong idea. There are lots of things that could go wrong if people found out...and I don't know if I can deal with that right now. I just want to stay out of trouble. I hope you understand."

Nott nodded slowly. "I...do."

Harry smiled brightly. "I'm glad. And I also want you to know that I won't hurt you, and you don't have to be scared of me. I don't like hurting people, especially you, because I like you."

Nott seemed very surprised by his earnest confession. "I...that...that's good. Listen, I still won't say anything, Potter. I'm not Malfoy – I'm not very keen on screwing you over. Personally, I think that the prejudice against...people like you is really poorly placed. There's nothing wrong with...what you are. I think it's rather brilliant, actually."

Harry's smile grew even brighter. "It makes me so happy to hear you say that! I'm really relieved, honestly. This is going so much better than I thought it would."

Nott looked a bit amused at that.

"So...I was hoping we could...start over. That's what people say, right? That they want to start over?"

Nott grinned at him, a bit. "Yes, Potter, that's what they say."

"Alright, then. My name's Harry Potter, but you can call me Harry. I'm very pleased to meet you."

"And I'm Theodore Nott, and you can call me Theo."

Harry had been ecstatic at his success. He did it, he actually did it! He had a friend, a friend who accepted him for who he was. He couldn't be more grateful.

For now, Nott was his only friend. He had a few friendly acquaintances, however. He often exchanged friendly greetings with Ron Weasley, who seemed to have gotten over the whole silencio-rictumsempra-flying rat incident, for which he was glad. The other boy seemed very good-natured and was clever in his own way. Moreover, he rose to the challenge of distinguishing himself among 5 older brothers very determinedly, which Harry admired. Neville Longbottom was also someone he remained on friendly terms with. The timid boy had taken some time to warm up to him, but after the incident with the rememberall, he had accepted the fact that Harry was, in fact, a nice Slytherin, and was really a pretty agreeable person, if he did say so himself. Terry Boot and Michael Corner from Ravenclaw also spoke with him from time to time, eager to pick up some of Harry's expertise in spell-casting. The two Ravenclaws were good conversationalists and intelligent company, and Harry...appreciated them.

As for the other Slytherins...they were cautious around him. Harry got the feeling that a lot of them still believed he didn't quite belong, what with the fact that he wasn't a pureblood, knew little of pureblood tradition and wizarding culture in general, and had Gryffindors as parents. It was kind of concerning for Harry, as Tom kept insisting that he needed to make allies within his own house. But that was where Quidditch came in. Harry was convinced that if he started winning his house some points, they'd come to appreciate him, and maybe even like him.

Not to mention, it was a lot of fun.

Suddenly finding himself outside, Harry smiled when he was startled from his musings by the fresh, cool, October air hitting his face, and allowed himself a moment of tranquility before he was interrupted.

"Potter! You're late!"

Harry smiled at his team captain sheepishly. "Sorry Flint, I was finishing an assignment. It won't happen again."

The older boy rolled his eyes, tossing him his broom.

* * *

" _Wingardium Leviosa,"_ the class recited, while Harry tried to keep a bored expression off his face.

He saw Theo glance at him with a frown. "You don't have to look so bored," he whispered, somewhat grudgingly.

Harry smiled at him sheepishly. "It's not purposeful, I promise."

"You already know this one too, then?"

Instead of answering, Harry pointed his wand at the feather lying on the desk, and said quietly, " _Wingardium Leviosa_."

Sure enough, the feather rose from its place on their shared desk, hovering in the air for a moment before gracefully descending.

"Look! Look everyone! Mr. Potter's done it! Five points to Slytherin!" their diminutive professor cried as Harry blushed a bit.

Theo obviously noticed the blush, because he sneered at him in that subtle, reflexive way he always did. "How you can be a show-off and modest at the same time completely escapes me."

"That's not purposeful either."

Meanwhile, he noticed Granger and Malfoy both glaring at him, as usual.

The rest of the class passed slowly, Granger attempting to assist her fellow Gryffindors after she had quickly mastered the spell as always. Harry felt bad for the girl. She obviously thought that assisting her housemates would win her brownie points, while it really only made them begrudge her even more.

This fact was evident when, while they rose from their seats, he heard Weasley chatting with Dean Thomas:

"It's LeviOsa, not LeviosA. Honestly, she's a nightmare. It's no wonder she hasn't got any friends!"

Harry sighed as the poor girl overheard the conversation and ran out of the classroom with tears in her eyes, while Malfoy snickered behind him. So many people, so many feelings...people were so complicated.

* * *

"I think that the _non pondere_ jinx might be a good alternative," Michael Corner was saying as he, Terry Boot, and Harry entered the Great Hall, 15 minutes late for the Halloween Feast.

After Charms class the three of them had all approached Professor Flitwick with the same question; were there any levitation spells with shorter incantations? After all, it might not always be practical to enunciate _"wingardium leviosa"_ in the middle of, say, a duel. The professor, thrilled with their question, had happily directed them to a number of books in the library, which they had been searching through for the last hour and a half.

Boot chewed on his lip a bit. "I don't understand why it's not a charm, though."

Harry shrugged. "From the reading I've done, it could be something as simple as the wand movements."

"You think that's it?" Boot said with a frown.

"Well, from what we read, it looks like using it's going to be more tiring too. Maybe that has something to do with it."

Corner raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Well, I'm thinking that the complexity of the wand movements might have something to do with the way the magic you put in is used..."

Corner grinned. "And maybe a lot of energy gets wasted somewhere!"

Harry nodded. "I think we'll have to do a little more research on the etymology to be sure."

Boot groaned. "Etymology? My Latin is rubbish."

Corner rolled his eyes. "You're just lazy."

"I'm not _lazy_. I just like to conserve energy."

"You know who might know something," Harry said, interrupting the beginnings of their friendly banter, "Granger."

Boot perked up a bit, at that. Harry thought he might have a bit of a crush on her. "Where is she, anyway?"

Harry looked around. "I'm not sure. Anyway, I'm going to go eat. We can finish this tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you Harry."

"Talk to you later, mate."

Harry smiled a bit as he approached the empty spot beside Theo at the Slytherin table.

"Hello everyone. Do any of you know where Hermione Granger is?" he asked immediately as he sat down.

Malfoy sneered and Zabini raised an eyebrow, like they usually did whenever he said anything.

"And what makes you think we'd know a thing like that?" Bulstrode sniffed, making another one of her squeaky sounds.

"She's probably still crying in the bathroom near the Charms classroom," Greengrass interjected, with a bit of a scoff.

He frowned as he dished some carrots onto his plate, somewhat concerned about the muggleborn girl's alleged behaviour. "Why would she be crying still? And why cry in the bathroom?"

Everyone just looked at him like he was being stupid. He hated moments like this, when he was the _only one_ who didn't know something.

"Is...no one going to answer?"

"You know nothing about women," Theo sighed.

Harry blinked. "I don't _know_ any women," he said, oblivious to the glares of the girls around him

"Never mind where where she is," Theo said, trying to diffuse the sudden tension that Harry was still quite oblivious to, "Where have _you_ been?"

"The library."

His friend scoffed at him. "Of course."

"And what were you researching this time?" Zabini asked, the slightest bit of curiosity revealing itself in his voice. Sometimes he would randomly become interested in what Harry was doing, but Harry had a feeling the other boy just liked to know what everyone was doing for the sake of it.

Nevertheless, Harry perked up at the question, so excited that he nearly choked on the piece of ham he'd been chewing. "Alternative possibilities for levitation spells. You see, the levitation charm has an eight syllable incantation, which is rather on the long side. Now, say you are in a situation that requires quick thinking, and you need to levitate something. Pronouncing eight syllables, especially ones that are accented the specific way the levitation charm's are, could take too much time - Boot and I timed it, it's about two point three seconds. I have a theory, which is completely conjecture at this point, that because of our liberal use of gender and declensions in Latin the length of the incantation is independent from the etymology in that -"

"We get it Potter," Parkinson interrupted, unmistakable irritation practically dripping from her voice. "You're a genius. Now can you shut up about it?"

Harry frowned. "I'm not a genius. I just think a lot."

That earned him quite a few glares. Honestly. These people were so touchy.

"That came out a bit wrong. I meant to say I'm just curious. Weren't any of you puzzled over the fact that such a simple charm has such a long incantation?" Really, Harry had been wondering this for a couple of years now. He tried asking Tom, but was told to "figure it out himself", which indicated that he _could_ figure it out himself - Tom liked to make him feel stupid, sometimes, but he never assigned Harry unreasonable tasks. Well, nothing _too_ unreasonable anyway...

Theo rolled his eyes at him. "Most of us had enough trouble just casting the charm in the first place."

"Honestly, Potter, I don't know how you do it," Davis said as she piled more mashed potatoes onto her plate, "You're _always_ the first person to get it right, and it's almost always on the first try!"

Harry smiled sheepishly. "Not always. Sometimes Granger beats me."

Everyone pointedly ignored that comment, so he switched gears. "The trick is to learn everything several weeks in advance."

Beside him, Theo snorted. "You say that as if it's a simple matter."

Harry refrained from commenting on that, and decided to switch gears again. "You got it pretty quickly, Parkinson."

The girl sat up straight, a smug look adorning her face. "It's all in the wand movements," she said primly.

Malfoy sneered again, at that, but said nothing. He had also figured the charm out pretty quickly, but Harry avoided addressing him directly whenever possible. Although, perhaps paying him a compliment might ease the Malfoy heir's dislike of him a bit...

But just as he was about to open his mouth to pay said compliment, the doors to the Great Hall flew open, and a very frazzled Professor Quirrell stumbled in.

"Troll! – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know."

And with that, the poor man lost consciousness and met the stone floor face-first.

Suddenly, the Great Hall was in an uproar, students darting to their feet and crying out in fear, confusion and disbelief - they were only silenced by the Headmaster's _Sonorous_ charm. "Prefects," his voice rumbled across the hall, "Lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

Harry sighed as he rose to his feet as per the directions of the nearest Slytherin prefect. This was...unexpected. Actually – he frowned, as he followed the rest of the Slytherins out of the hall – it was rather suspicious. How did a _troll_ end up in the castle? He'd never seen a troll before, but he was pretty sure they were rather massive, and stupid, on top of that. How did it get in? It couldn't, could it? Unless it had help...

He was suddenly snapped out of his thoughts by a startling realization. Granger didn't know about the troll. He remembered, Greengrass had said that she'd taken up residence in the bathroom closest to the Charms classroom (which was rather close to the dungeons), and would no doubt still be there, wallowing in her embarrassment (which he had, over the course of his brief meal, deduced was the reason for her absence). He glanced at at the Slytherin Prefect in front of him, Clara Rosier. She wouldn't care if Granger was in peril, she'd just want to make sure all the Slytherins were safe. One muggleborn student from Gryffindor wouldn't matter to her. What should he do? They were relatively close to the bathroom...if only he could find someone to ask for help...

He blinked. Wait, why did he need help? All he had to do was warn Granger. Yes, that shouldn't a problem, he thought, as he cast the disillusionment charm over himself and slipped away, unnoticed by the rest of the Slytherins.

Once in the clear, he sprinted back around the corner and down the hall, growing alarmed when he heard an angry growl in front of him.

Well, that couldn't be good.

Bursting into the bathroom, he found Granger backed up against the wall, terrified, with tears running down her face, as the troll - a horrifyingly ugly creature no shorter than four metres - waddled over to her, knocking sinks and stall doors from the walls, growling stupidly amidst the hissing of ruptured pipes as it approached her.

His eyes widened. "So that's what a troll looks like," he said curiously.

The troll let out another growl, and he was startled to attention. "Granger!" he shouted, "I'll distract it, then you run past!"

The terrified girl nodded frantically, as Harry steeled himself and called out, " _Bombarda Maxima!"_

The troll was thrown to the side, and Granger took the opportunity to scramble past it, over to Harry.

"You ok?" he checked.

She looked at him, horrified. "No! And neither are you! We're being attacked by a troll!"

Harry's eyes widened as the troll got to its feet at a surprising speed and began to run toward them.

Oh dear. Oh no. A troll was charging him. Seriously, a _troll_ was _charging_ him. What do you do when a troll is charging you? Fear was flowing over his tense body like ice water, and he didn't have time to think.

 _Make it bleed._

Oh, that could work.

" _Diffindo!"_

A moment later, he and Granger were covered in troll blood, as the giant creature fell to its knees and its newly detached head bounced off to the side.

Well that was...a very overpowered severing charm.

Poor Granger was hyperventilating at this point. She stared at him with owlishly wide eyes. "You just...decapitated a troll."

Harry nodded slowly. "So I did..." he said, a little stunned himself. "I don't really know whether to feel self-satisfied or saddened by it's untimely demise," he said frankly, as the muggleborn girl stared at him as though he'd sprouted a second head.

Just then, a torrent of loud footsteps approached the bathroom, preceding the arrival of Professor McGonagall, and behind her Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell. Taking one look at the headless and very dead troll, the squeamish professor let out a whimper and collapsed onto a pile of rubble. Whilst Professor Snape only glanced coldly at the children but went on immediately to examine the troll, Professor McGonagall full-on glared at them.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" she said, with cold fury in her voice. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"

Professor Snape, who seemed to have finished inspecting the troll, turned to Harry and Granger also; his face was stoic, but Harry could tell that there was rage underneath, along with no small amount of curiosity.

Suddenly, a small, shaky voice spoke up, drawing everyone's attention to Granger. "Please, Professor McGonagall – he was looking for me."

"Miss Granger!"

Granger managed to steady her legs, and stepped forward, face red with shame. "I went look-"

Harry, realizing that Granger was going to take all the blame, quickly interrupted. "Granger was feeling ill after Charms, and didn't make it to the feast. She hadn't heard about the troll. I realized this, and thought I should alert her to the danger...I know it was foolish, but I was terribly worried about her."

Professor McGonagall turned her disapproving glare straight back to Harry, before Granger spoke up again. "If he hadn't found me, I'd be dead now for sure. He didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when he arrived."

"Well – in that case…" said Professor McGonagall, her unwavering glare still fixed on Harry, "Five points from Slytherin, for directly disobeying the headmaster and going off on your own without a teacher…"

Harry sighed, resigned.

"But ten points to Slytherin, for caring for the well-being of a student not even in your own house. And for sheer dumb luck."

Harry smiled. "Thank you pro-"

Her glare shut him up.

He glanced over at Professor Snape, who was still scowling at him menacingly, and did his best to look very, very guilty.

"Now," Professor McGonagall huffed, "I want both of you to report to the hospital wing immediately."

"Yes Professor McGonagall."

* * *

"You're lucky you weren't killed," Madame Pomfrey was saying as she checked Granger over for injuries. She sighed. "Very lucky indeed, Miss Granger. Just the split lip, then."

Granger nodded dejectedly.

"Now, now, none of that. It's nothing a little magic can't fix."

"I can do it!" Harry piped up from behind them, a bright grin on his face. "I remember the spell you taught me, Madame Pomfrey!"

The woman smiled at him softly. "Well, what do you say, Miss Granger?"

Granger blushed. "Sure," she said very quietly.

Still smiling, Harry pointed his wand at her. _"Episky!"_

And with that, the cut vanished, leaving Granger somewhat dumbstruck. "That's it?"

Madame Pomfrey looked at her with amusement. "That's it. Now off you go. You deserve a full night's rest, after what you've been through."

Granger thanked her with a smile, and when she turned around to leave, Harry made to follow her.

"Not so fast Mr. Potter," the matron said sternly.

Harry smiled sheepishly. "I'm actually not hurt at all Madame Pomfrey. It was just Granger. The troll didn't get anywhere near me."

"Be that as it may," the woman said, "I can't have you leave just yet." Her face softened. "How have you been, Harry?"

He tried to keep his face from falling at the question. "I've been fine, ma'am."

The matron frowned. "And your headaches?"

"Nearly gone." He smiled. "Barely notice them anymore."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it, but I was hoping...we could have another chat," she said, gesturing to one of the chairs beside her.

"Alright," Harry said uneasily as he sat down.

"Have you been eating enough?"

"I think so, ma'am."

She nodded slowly. "It looks like you've gained some weight, which is certainly a good sign. But Harry...I still am at a loss as to how to explain why you needed to gain weight at all."

 _Years of going to bed without dinner will do that to a person, I guess._

"I just, forget to eat sometimes, I guess."

"And your Aunt and Uncle, they don't remind you?"

 _Of course they don't - they wish I'd just starve to death._

"They're really busy."

The woman nodded slowly. "And were they also too busy to get your wrist set properly?" she asked carefully.

 _Of course, they're always too busy for me._

"I told you, ma'am, they didn't know about it."

"But how could they not notice, Harry?"

 _They did notice, they just didn't care._

"Uncle Vernon works a lot, and Aunt Petunia has to take care of Dudley. He's a lot of work to take care of, you see." He made a face and added in a stage whisper, "He's not very bright."

"And the ribs, Harry? You can't tell me they didn't notice that."

Harry hesitated. He knew exactly what he wanted to say. Because even though he had Tom with him always...sometimes the emptiness that he could see, hear, and touch was more real than his best friend. When faced with tangible hatred and rejection, sometimes words that only existed in his head didn't save him from the pain. Sometimes knowing Tom was there wasn't enough.

 _They hate me._

 _They wish I was dead._

 _Sometimes, they've made_ me _wish I was dead._

 _When I'm with them, I feel worthless._

 _When I'm with them, I'm just a freak._

 _When I'm with them, I'm alone._

 _Please let me leave._

 _Please help me._

But he couldn't. Tom made it clear that the Dursleys were crucial to his plans. The fact that they didn't care where Harry was and what he did allowed him to move about freely, running Tom's errands for him with relative ease. He couldn't afford to leave. Tom's plans would grind to a halt, and then where would they be? He had no idea, but Tom seemed to, and made it clear that they couldn't afford to be in such a place at all.

Besides, it wasn't that bad. It really wasn't. After all, Tom didn't have it much better, at the orphanage. If he could do it, Harry could too. He just had to be strong. It really wasn't that bad. This stuff happens to loads of kids, right? He was just weak. He just had to try harder. He just had to be strong.

 _They're just muggles._

 _They can't hurt me._

 _I'm stronger than they are._

 _I'm strong._

"That was my fault, Madame Pomfrey. The doctor gave me instructions, he told me to stay in and rest, but I went out to play instead. My cousin accidentally tripped me, is all."

The old woman in front of him seemed to wither slightly at his words, the lines on her face growing deeper and her eyes more tired. "If you insist, Harry."

He nodded, putting on his best smile. "You really have nothing to worry about Madame Pomfrey. I'm fine. My family loves me, and they really do take care of me. Accidents happen, is all."

The matron sighed. "Very well, Harry. You may leave."

He forcibly widened his smile as he rose to his feet. "Thanks Madame Pomfrey! You have a good night."

"And you as well, Harry."

He turned to leave.

"And Harry...when you're ready to talk, please do come to me. I'll always be here."

"Of course."

His false smile bled off his face as he walked away, and as he rounded the corner, he almost burst into tears. He hated these 'chats'. It was the third time Madame Pomfrey had interrogated him, and the third time he'd had to lie to her face while everything inside him screamed at him to tell the truth. He didn't understand why he felt so conflicted - he knew what he had to do. So why was it so hard? Why did it hurt so much to lie?

His heart was thudding in his chest as he hurried down the multitude of stairwells leading down to the dungeons, and the sound of blood pumping in his ears drowned out even his footsteps. He needed to get away. He needed to be alone. He needed his bed. He needed Tom.

When the door to the common room was in sight, he sighed in relief, and a smile almost made it onto his face when he uttered the password.

 _"Animam Puritate."_

Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.

"Hey _Potter_ ," Malfoy sneered at him, barring his way immediately as he entered the common room, no shortage of eyes on him.

He sighed, steadying his breathing as best as he could. "Yes, Malfoy?"

"I heard you went running after that stupid mudblood Gryfindork, Granger." Word travels fast at Hogwarts, apparently.

Harry did his very best to keep his face neutral and raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Malfoy looked at him smugly, as Harry's answer had garnered them some more attention. "That kind of behaviour is not appreciated in Slytherin House, Potter. Would you care to share why you'd risk your life for a _mudblood_?"

"Not really."

"Don't walk away from me, Potter!"

The whole common room was staring at them now.

"As you wish, Malfoy."

"That's what I like to hear. Now, would you like to explain why you no doubt lost us points for a _mudblood_? Does she remind you of your mother, Potter? She was a mudblood too, wasn't she?"

"Don't talk about my mother," Harry snapped, feeling too exhausted and stiff from nerves to humour the boy.

"Why not? Does it hurt your feelings?" Malfoy mocked.

Harry grit his teeth. Why was Malfoy _so_ irritating?

"That's it, isn't it? Your mother – are you ashamed of her, Potter? Are you ashamed of the fact that she was a mudblood who-"

"Do _not_ finish that sentence, Malfoy." There was something hot and nearly boiling in his chest, some strange feeling he'd never felt before, raising his heart rate as it simmered beneath the surface.

The boy grinned at him maliciously. "Or what?"

Or what? _Or what?_ How dare Malfoy underestimate him! He'd shown himself to be capable, he'd won his house so many points, and disarmed the other boy many times already, and still Malfoy thought him to be weak! And still insisted on insulting him! After all he'd done for him, after all the times he'd shown him lenience, and looked the other way. After how kind, patient, and _merciful_ he'd been...how stupid was the boy? How ungrateful, rude, insulting, cruel...

That was when the feeling in his chest reached boiling point.

Harry was just as surprised as everyone else when a sickening snap interrupted their conversation, and Malfoy's grin bled off his face, replaced by horrified pain. His face paled drastically, and he fell, moaning and crying out as his leg collapsed at an eerily _wrong_ angle.

It was _broken_. Harry _broke_ it.

Suddenly aware of the spectacle he had made and the gasps circulating the Common Room, Harry froze. What had he done? Was that him? Of course it was. He'd been angry...too angry. He lost control. Lost control of what? What could he possibly lose control of? It was that feeling, he knew it. That wonderful, terrifying feeling that had been there, boiling furiously, only to evaporate a moment later.

What _was_ that?

He panicked, suddenly afraid and feeling very guilty about breaking the boy's leg (even though it _was_ an accident, he swore it was). Everyone had seen them - he'd lost his temper in front of _everyone_. Would they be afraid of him? Hate him? Ridicule him for losing his cool? He had to do something...

But what does one do at a time like this?

 _Fix it._

Taking a deep breath, he slowly walked over and looked down at the whimpering boy sadly.

"Or," he said with a soft voice, all his previous anger and indignation completely drained from it, "Nothing. I won't threaten you, Malfoy. I trust you are intelligent enough to understand what will happen next time you speak out of turn like that."

Malfoy gasped, doing his best not to cry.

"Next time, I take out my wand."

The other boy looked at him with unconcealed fear in his eyes, as Harry knelt down beside him, drawing his wand and pointing it at the boy's leg.

 _"Episky."_

Luckily, seeing a it was a nice clean break, the simple healing charm did the trick.

He looked up at Malfoy with a remorseful frown. "I'm sorry for hurting you."

And with that, he nearly ran out of the Common Room, doing his best to ignore the stunned stares he left behind him.

"You're really terrifying, you know," Theo would say to him later. Harry was sure that the other boy didn't realize how hurtful that statement really was.

* * *

Nope, that wasn't Voldemort. That was all Harry. O.o

Now, I wanted to say something about Harry's thoughts on his conversation with Madame Pomfrey. I mostly want to clarify; in case the dynamic hasn't been clear, Harry allows his relatives to mistreat him so that they keep him around. It's not as bad as it used to be, obviously, but neglect is still abuse. Tom/Voldemort encourages this, not because he doesn't care if Harry is mistreated, but because he also has no perspective on how children should be treated, as he himself was raised in an orphanage in the 1930s by a woman who didn't like him much at all. To both Harry and Vodemort, neglect is the status quo, physical abuse is mistreatment, and what normal children have is being spoiled rotten.

Anyway, what did you think? I always want to hear your feedback. Thanks for reading!


	17. Popularity

**Disclaimer:** I dislike sports, and I'm lazy, so I took Lee Jordan's commentary right from the _Philosopher's Stone_. The rest doesn't belong to me either, unfortunately.

 **AN1:** I've arbitrarily decided that Wednesdays are better than Sundays, so I'm going to say I'll post either Sundays, Wednesdays, or both. The reason I say this now is because there's a chance I won't post Sunday. I mean, I probably will, but I have a friend over this weekend from across the country. And yes, I do have friends.

 **AN2:** Thank you so much, everyone! I got some really great reviews last chapter. Really, so many of them were such a pleasure to read. I hope I don't disappoint anyone with this chapter...this is more a follow-up chapter than anything. Chapter 16 is one of my favourite chapters so far, so it's going to be hard to beat :/

* * *

 **Chapter 17: Popularity**

The following week was...complicated. So many people to appease, so little time. His first priority, of course, was Tom. The man was positively furious that he risked his life for the "foolish, bookish mudblood." Actually, he didn't think Tom had ever been that angry with him. The night following the troll incident, Tom didn't even want to talk to him...he seemed content with torturing Harry with blinding headaches for the whole night. It was only a few hours before dawn the next day when Harry finally had a chance to explain himself, which was no easy task, either.

Explaining himself to Tom was an entirely different ordeal from explaining himself to Professor McGonagall; Tom didn't care about kindness, or doing the right thing, and by no means believed in 'sheer dumb luck'. In order to craft such an explanation, he had to ask a very important question: why _did_ he run after Granger?

It wasn't a well-thought out decision, that's for sure – acting so rashly wasn't like him. He didn't think his motivations were moral, either. It was a split second decision, a reckless choice that almost got him killed. He had been stupid and thoughtless. He just...really wanted to help out the Granger girl, because despite her faults, he really did like her. Naturally, that explanation wouldn't do either, so he decided to spin it a different way.

"Y-you said I need allies, Tom...isn't it b-better that I have allies in every house? I'm the Boy Who L-lived...that reputation is kind of...wasted on the Slytherins isn't it?"

And to that, Tom had eventually (albeit reluctantly) agreed. While Harry's 'heroic' actions would (literally) not win him points in Slytherin, it would everywhere else. The rest of Hogwarts would see his actions as the work of the orphaned son of Lily and James Potter, two brave Gryffindors who passed on to their son their courage, selflessness, and moral fibre. He wouldn't be "Harry Potter, the boy who sorted into Slytherin" - he would be "Harry Potter, the Slytherin who risked his life to save a muggleborn classmate". This Harry Potter was good, kind, and righteous; this Harry Potter could get away with a lot more.

So yes, Tom had eventually conceded the merits of his actions, but not before threatening massive amounts of pain should he ever be that rash again. Honestly, the threat was starting to get a bit old. Harry'd grown fairly used to agony at this point.

Thankfully, the other Slytherins in Harry's life weren't quite as intent on making him suffer for his misadventure. Well, except Professor Snape, who was directing glares that would petrify the bravest of Gryffindors at him whenever he was in his general vicinity. However, despite how disconcerting it was to feel the Potions Professor's death glare on the back of his head while he ate, Harry _was_ touched that he cared so much.

As for the other Slytherins...once he'd revealed that the whole ordeal had actually _won_ them points, his housemates seemed a lot less put off by the whole thing. Indeed, the whole debacle with Granger was no longer much of a topic for discussion; however, the mistake Harry had made in losing his temper with Malfoy was.

The first indicator that the incident was going to come back to bite him was when Theo had come into the dorm after him, looking rather pale.

"You're really terrifying, you know."

He hadn't known what to say to that.

"Is that what you would have done to me had I said anything about...you know...?"

Utterly spent at that point, he had carelessly responded, "Oh, I had something a lot worse in mind, to be honest."

Oops.

Poor Theo seemed pretty unnerved by the whole thing.

Malfoy had avoided him like the plague since then, and Crabbe and Goyle following suit by extension, which was in all honesty a plus; he wasn't going to claim that he didn't appreciate not having to look over his shoulder every time he entered a room, preparing to be hexed or tripped. Zabini was also less inclined to scoff at him these days, and had started looking at him with cautious respect mingled with well-controlled fear. While the other boy was clearly...disconcerted by Harry's loss of control, something positive seemed to have changed between them, because he had started politely greeting Harry whenever they crossed paths. It felt nice not to be dismissed or ignored.

The girls...well, Pansy seemed pretty sore about the fact he'd broken Malfoy's leg, and Bulstrode was definitely scared of him. Davis looked like she was trying very hard to remain indifferent, pretending that nothing had happened, and Greengrass...she'd taken to blushing every time he looked her way. If he didn't know better, he'd think that she rather fancied his display the other night...but that couldn't be, right? Girls like handsome, brave, chivalrous types, right? Maybe not; after all, he'd overheard them talking in the Common Room the night after.

"Can you believe it?" Parkinson was saying, "That little..half blood bookworm broke Draco's leg! Draco _Malfoy_!"

"Well," Davis replied, "He _was_ kind of asking for it."

"Tracey!"

"I just...can't believe Potter would do something like that," Bulstrode said shakily. "He always seems so...polite, quiet, doesn't he? Never says a word when Draco insults him."

He could hear the smirk in Greengrass's voice, "Well, you know what they say about the quiet ones."

"Don't be crass, Daphne," Parkinson snapped.

"It doesn't matter," Davis put in, "I admit I'd have never pegged him as...that type, but like you said, Milly, he's so quiet – how could anyone know?"

"Maybe underneath it all he's a _sadist._ " Greengrass sounded excited at the prospect.

"Daphne!" Bulstrode squeaked.

"What? You can't possibly _not_ be interested. He broke Draco's leg, _wandlessly_. And he didn't even seem that angry. Imagine what would happen if he were _furious_. I mean, he must be _so_ powerful!"

"You're a freak, Daphne," Parkinson had concluded. Harry was appalled that someone would call their friend a freak, but at the same time, he kind of knew where she was coming from.

He'd been rather confused about the whole thing, so naturally, he'd approached Tom.

"I just...don't get it, at all..."

"I knew a woman like that, once,"

Harry was pleased to hear it. Perhaps Tom could help remedy some of his puzzlement, then. "And?"

"And? And now she's in Azkaban for torturing the Longbottom boy's parents into insanity."

"...oh. Well, how did she work?"

"What?"

"Well, I mean, what made her do things? Say things? Which parts of her made her say stuff like that? How did she work?"

Tom seemed very amused by the question. "I never bothered with it."

"Why?"

"It was simple, really. She was _in love_ , Harry, with _Lord Voldemort_."

Harry frowned. To be honest, he'd never even considered the prospect of someone falling in love with Tom before.

"Well, did you...have feelings for her?"

"Why would I have any such things?"

"I dunno...did you...think she was pretty?"

"I have always been under the impression that her...beauty left little to be desired."

"Well, were you attracted to her?"

"No, I don't waste my time with things like that."

"Have you _ever_ been attracted to a girl before?"

"No."

"What about boys?"

"No."

Harry's eyes went wide. "Have you ever, you know, done it?"

Tom looked impatient now. "Done what?"

"You know, had... _sex_."

"How do you even know what that is?"

"The biology book you made me read, remember?"

"Ah."

"Well, have you?"

"Twice."

"And?"

"And it was unsanitary and tedious, what did you expect me to say?" Tom snapped.

"Then why did you do it twice?"

"The first time was merely an experiment."

"And the second?"

"Well," Tom drawled, a cruel glint in his eye and a sadistic smirk on his face, "That was a bit more entertaining."

And that was that. Harry was left feeling vaguely uncomfortable, and now knew to never go to Tom about girl troubles, assuming he ever got the chance to have those in earnest. For now, he was content with labelling the females in his life as a mystery, and leaving it at that.

The older Slytherins seemed equal parts wary, curious, and amused by him. However, if it hadn't been clear that his housemates were suspicious of him before, it certainly was now. He _knew_ people were talking about him behind his back, staring at him while he looked the other way. It was clear to him that none of them had expected him to get so angry, given how even his temper had been for the last two months, and he was sure they didn't think that he had it in him to break another student's leg with wandless, wordless magic. From what Harry could tell, that was considered an impressive feat, though it was nothing new to him. What _was_ new was the brief but potent torrent of rage that had overtaken him. He found it...extremely concerning. He had felt like Tom, for a few moments, and he really _didn't_ want to feel like Tom. He also hated that he'd inadvertently proven Tom's "fear breeds respect" theory, because his housemates really did seem to have some respect for him now. He hadn't even lost any points over the whole debacle.

"I'm not going to take any points," Hortense Rowland had said the day after, when she pulled him aside. "I'm not going to tell Professor Snape either. None of us will."

Harry had looked at her curiously. "Why?"

"Malfoy was out of line. I'm a prefect, so I can't say he deserved it, or that what you did was impressive. I certainly can't say that you've won the respect of some of the older students. What I can say is don't lose your temper like that again, and watch your back. You especially need to be careful not to make too many enemies."

He'd fidgeted a bit, feeling some nervousness wash over him as a result of her words, but she noticed this and her eyes softened, and, much to his surprise, she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"But know this, Potter. I've got your back. Slytherins look after our own...and you're a Slytherin."

Her words left a warm feeling in his chest; he had thanked her profusely after that, and she had smiled softly in return. The attention he had received from Rowland was really nice, but for the most part, he really did hate all the attention, and was more and more hoping the Quidditch game in a couple of weeks would inject some positive energy into all of it.

The only person who seemed truly, earnestly pleased by the actions he took the other night was Granger, or Hermione, as she now insisted he call her. The morning following the troll incident, she had bravely trotted up to the Slytherin table during breakfast.

"Potter? I..." she began timidly, "I wanted to thank you for what you did for me last night. If you hadn't beheaded that troll, I'd probably be dead right now."

"Beheaded?" he saw Theo mouthing out of the corner of his eye.

He smiled uneasily at her. "Well, I'm glad you're not dead. I'd have no one to compete with in transfiguration, if you died, and that would really be a shame."

She had giggled a bit at that, leaving Harry somewhat enheartened.

"Besides, I've always wanted to meet a troll. Now I have...though it was admittedly...brief. I've never decapitated anything before either!"

Uh-oh. That statement didn't quite come out the way he wanted it too, he realized as the students around him turned a bit green.

"I mean...well, what I mean to say is that I'm glad everything worked out for both of us, Granger."

"Hermione."

He glanced down at the hand she was holding out to him.

"You can call me Hermione."

Harry smiled softly, taking her hand. "I suppose you can call me Harry then."

Hermione blushed a bit and quickly excused herself.

"Consorting with mudbloods now, Potter?" Parkinson had called out once the other girl was out of earshot, but was quickly silenced by the glare he sent her way.

Over the past two weeks, Gr-er, Hermione had taken to sitting beside him in the library. Usually, they just sat together in silence, working on their respective homework assignments in peace, but occasionally they'd compare book collections or spell-casting techniques. They'd even discussed starting projects together. Hermione was especially interested in the spell-crafting book he had, and was incredibly fascinated by what he told her about occlumency. He'd tentatively agreed to teach her after the winter holidays. Moreover, once Hermione had gotten over her pride, she'd started to ask Harry's advice, and not just about casting spells, either.

"He's started sitting beside me, and talking to me."

"That's good, right? Ron's a nice boy, when he's not being a halfwit."

"He's been asking me for help with charms, too."

"Perfect! Just what you've always wanted!"

"I don't understand why he suddenly likes me!"

"Well, I'm sure he feels bad about nearly hurting your feelings to death, so to speak."

"I just don't know what to do, Harry, no one ever wants me around! I try to be nice to them, but no one likes me."

"Maybe try talking less?"

She scowled at him.

"Really, that's what I do."

"And then break peoples' legs when that fails."

"That was once, Hermione, and I'd had a long day. I do still feel very bad about it. Rather horrible, actually."

She sobered at that. "Well, you apologized," she said uneasily.

"Yeah, and I guess it was kind of your fault too."

"It was not!"

"If I hadn't had to go looking for you..." he started with a mischievous smile.

"I never asked you to look for me! Besides! I didn't know about the troll."

"I suppose we'll just have to blame it on whoever let the troll in, won't we?"

"Y – wait, what?"

"What?"

" _Let_ the troll in?"

"Well, someone had to, didn't they?"

"Harry! No one would purposefully let a troll into a school full of children!"

"Why not?"

"Well - well, it would be a rather awful thing to do, wouldn't it?"

"And?"

"Harry, what reason could someone possibly have to do such a thing?"

"Well, it would make a good distraction, wouldn't it?"

"A distraction from what!?"

"I don't know...yet. But I'm sure of it."

"Well, you're wrong."

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Nope, definitely not wrong. You'll see, Hermione. I'll prove it."

"And how will you do that?"

"I don't know...yet."

And that was how he ended up standing outside the Slytherin common room at 1 am on November 15th, a very disgruntled Theo Nott standing across from him looking equal parts irritated, afraid, and sleepy.

"I don't understand," was all he managed.

"Well," Harry began as he led his friend forward. "I need to prove someone wrong."

"Who?"

"Hermione."

"Of course. And what's she wrong about now?"

"She thinks the troll just wandered in on its own during the Halloween Feast."

"Didn't it?"

Harry nearly pulled his hair out. "No, of course not! Honestly, what's it like to see the world in little papery two-dimensional crayon drawings? Why am I friends with you two again?"

Oh dear, he was channeling Tom again.

"Because no one else will be friends with you, Harry." It was a joke, but only halfway. Harry had confided in Theo regarding his anxiety over his friend-making skills, and Theo had taken it upon himself to mock these anxieties until they didn't make Harry anxious anymore. So far, it was working decently. Harry was a lot less nervous, these days.

"True, but not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is that someone let the troll in as a distraction."

"A distraction for what?"

"I don't know yet."

"...right. And how do you know all this?"

Well, to be fair, he didn't. He was just postulating – but Tom agreed, so he was sure he was right. "I just do."

"...ok. And why am I here?"

"Well, these things are always safer with two people instead of one. Plus, I need someone to verify my findings in case Hermione doesn't believe me."

"And why would she believe _me_?"

"She may not, but I believe that if she interrogates us separately, she'll be able to deduce the truth of our story; she's very intelligent like that."

"And why would I let that mudblood 'interrogate' me?"

"(A), don't call her a mudblood, and (B), because you want to stay on my good side, of course."

"...yes, I do."

Harry smiled.

"So...where exactly are we going?"

"Well, I don't know _exactly_ where we're going, but we're going to check out the third floor corridor."

Theo's eyes bugged out. "We're going _where?"_

"The third floor corridor."

"And why, in the name of Merlin, Morgana, and all things holy, are we going there?"

"Well, you see, I believe that there's something hidden in the third floor corridor, something that's not usually there, or else Professor Dumbledore wouldn't have announced it at the feast. My theory is that whoever let the troll in did so in an attempt to create a distraction while they came up here looking for whatever it is Professor Dumbledore hid here."

"And you, in all your infinite wisdom, decided to come looking for it."

"Quite."

"If I die a painful death, I'm coming back to haunt you."

"That seems fair."

Theo sighed. "Maybe Dumbledore was exaggerating...maybe he just didn't want people looking around up here."

"I don't think so, but if you'd prefer it, we can pretend that that's true for the time being."

Theo shot him a deadpan look. "No, you've already ruined it."

"Just being honest."

"Not one of your better traits, Harry."

"So I've been told."

Indeed, Tom had told him this many times. Speaking of Tom, he was fully in support of Harry's little expedition. Tom (quite reasonably) believed that there was something going on at Hogwarts, some sort plot, the details of which neither he nor Harry were privy to. And he didn't like that. With Harry's frequent headaches in Defence against the Dark Arts, Tom had his suspicions that his master soul might have something to do with it, which meant that their ignorance of the situation was a disadvantage they could not afford. So, Tom had insisted that they _must_ find out what was hidden on the third floor corridor. Moreover, Tom had further insisted that Theo be brought along – apparently these sorts of things were always safer in pairs (not to mention, if they were caught, it would be easier to explain away the expedition with someone else to vouch for his innocent intentions), and since Theo was already honour bound to keep his mouth shut, he was the perfect choice for a partner in crime.

Harry grinned as they reached the corridor. "Here we are. Now let me know if you find it."

"Find what?"

"Something suspicious, I suppose."

Theo groaned, but started trying doors nonetheless. _"Alohomora...alohomora...alohomora..."_

It turned out that a large majority of the rooms that branched out of the third floor corridor were dusty, unused classrooms that had been cleared out, making their task quite simple...and boring. Whether time was passing quickly as a result, or lagging behind, Harry had no idea. The affair was monotonous either way.

They were about halfway down the corridor when they heard a shuffling sound down the stairs.

"Harry! Someone's there!" Theo hissed, rather alarmed.

"I know, it's Filch – cast the disillusionment charm and go sit in the corner for a couple of minutes."

"Harry! I can't cast the disillusionment charm!"

Harry frowned at him. "But I showed you how just the other day!"

"Well _some_ people can't replicate fourth year spells after being shown _only_ _once._ "

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

Harry sighed. "Fine – _alohomora –_ let's hide in here," he said, pulling Theo into the room he'd just opened, feeling the boy stiffen as he did. "...what?"

A very pale looking Theo shakily pointed behind him, causing him to spin around.

"Oh...that looks like a three headed dog."

"Harry, I think that _is_ a three headed dog," Theo whispered hoarsely.

"Yeah, I think you're right."

At that moment, a deep growl sounded through the room, and both boys jumped at the sound as the creature opened its gigantic eyes.

"Good doggy," Harry said, smiling hopefully.

Apparently it did not, in fact, appreciate being called a 'good doggy', however, because it immediately let out a howl, prompting the boys to both scramble out of the room, nearly falling over as they slammed the door behind them, wasting no time before they ducked into the next room Harry quickly unlocked.

Once they were safe, Theo looked over to Harry, who was grinning widely.

"Well, that was...rather cute, wasn't it?"

"You're so weird."

"And you're blind. It was adorable. Did you see it's eyes? They were so big and black!"

"They were kind of hard to miss."

Harry sighed. "I suppose we'll just have to agree to disagree. At least we got what we came for."

"You think someone let a troll in so they could come up here and check out the three-headed dog?" Theo asked incredulously.

Harry laughed. "No, of course not! They were looking for whatever's beneath the trap door the dog was standing on."

"...oh."

* * *

"Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you," Madame Hooch said sternly to the Gryffindor and Slytherin Quidditch players gathered around her. "Mount your brooms please."

Harry's head was buzzing with excitement as the 15 brooms rose in the air. This was it. He could do this. He was going to win, and then his housemates were going to like him - and he wasn't going to die in the process, proving Tom wrong. Everything was going to be fine. Excellent, in fact. Everything was going to be excellent.

And with a sharp whistle, the game began.

The part Harry had to play was pretty boring, to be honest. Flint didn't want him messing anything up, so he was supposed to wait for the snitch to show up, and stay put until it did. Luckily, he felt quite content to enjoy the wind in his hair, along with the excellent commentary.

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor – what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too -"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry Professor."

Harry laughed a little, as he sat on his broom, vigilant and nervous. Lee Jordan was commentating on the match that day, and was an avid Quidditch fan, a friend of the Weasley twins as well, so his opinions promised to be amusing.

"And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve – back to Johnson and – no, Slytherin have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes – Flint flying like an eagle up there – he's going to sc – no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and Gryffindor take the Quaffle – that's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and – OUCH – that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger – Quaffle taken by Slytherin – that's Adrian Pucey speeding off towards the goalposts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger – sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which – nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes – she's really flying – dodges a speeding Bludger – the goalposts are ahead – come on, now, Angelina – Keeper Bletchley dives – misses – GRYFFINDOR SCORE!"

Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, mingled with howls and moans from the Slytherins.

The rest of the game continued similarly, with Lee Jordan's commentary changing tones with the flow of the game.

"Slytherin in possession – Flint with the Quaffle – passes Spinnet – passes Bell – hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose – only joking, Professor – Slytherin score – oh no..."

Yes, everything was going just fine until 27 minutes into the game.

It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went spinning dangerously past his head, that it happened. His broom gave a sudden, drastic lurch, and for a split second, he thought he was going to tumble right off. He gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and knees. What had just happened? Did the broom malfunction? Wait, _do_ brooms malfunction? How _does_ a broom malfunction?

Wait a second. How did the broom work anyway? He was suddenly horrified by himself. He'd never even thought about it. Here he was, flying around dangerously on an enchanted house-cleaning tool, not having a clue how or what kind of enchantment was keeping him in the air. Honestly, how stupid of him! No wonder Tom was so upset! He -

He was startled out of his musings when it happened again, and again, and again. It swerved and jolted and lurched mercilessly, as though it was trying to buck him off. But it was not until he tried to move over to the side of the pitch that he realized that his broom was completely out of his control. He couldn't turn it. He couldn't even make it move at all, voluntarily. It was zig-zagging through the air and every now and then making violent swishing movements which nearly had him falling to his death. He could feel Tom's panic in the back of his mind.

Meanwhile, no one seemed to have noticed that his broom had apparently decided that it didn't want to play Quidditch anymore. It was carrying him slowly higher and higher, away from the game, jerking and twitching as it went. Why couldn't it dive down lower? Maybe then he could jump off...

Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His broom had started to roll sideways, and he was barely managing to hang on.

Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry's broom had given a wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.

He could hear shouts from his team mates, and was relieved when Chaser Terence Higgs started making his way toward him. Apparently though, he didn't end up needing any help at all, because his broom stopped misbehaving as soon as the commotion was directed somewhere else, and smoke erupted from the spectator stands.

When he finally felt control of the broom return to him, he sighed in relief.

"Alright there, Potter?" Flint shouted over at him.

He gave an uneasy grin. "Yes, I'm...quite well...considering..."

Flint let out a bark of laughter before flying off to continue the game.

The rest of the game went...comparatively smoothly, and Harry was thrilled when, 43 minutes in, he managed to catch sight of the snitch. It gave him quite a chase, but he was determined. He'd chased it around the pitch for a few laps, but finally, when he started gaining on it, it switched course, suddenly diving downward, with Harry hot on its tail. To a lesser Quidditch player, this would have been a smart move on the snitch's part - a good escape tactic; to Harry, however, this was the chance he had been waiting for. The snitch was trapped between him and the ground.

As it turned out, he didn't quite catch the snitch – he nearly swallowed it. It was...an interesting experience. Suffice it to say that the game ended in complete confusion.

* * *

As of that afternoon, Harry was the most popular boy in Slytherin (at least for a few hours), and was showered with thank yous and congratulations as he left the Quidditch pitch. However, just as he was heading back to the common room with his team, he saw Hermione and Ron waiting off at the side of the pitch for him.

Telling the Slytherin team that he'd meet them in the common room, he ran over to them.

"I don't suppose you're waiting for me to offer my condolences?"

Ron scowled at him. "Oh shut up. Slytherin wouldn't have won if Hermione hadn't saved your life."

Harry frowned. "Saved my life?"

Hermione grabbed his arm. "You broom, Harry, it was cursed."

"Well, yes, I gathered as much -"

"It was Professor Snape, Harry, I saw h-"

"What _exactly_ did you see?" Harry interrupted.

"Snape..." Ron said, "He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn't take his eyes off you."

"It was definitely him," Hermione said, "And it got me thinking about what you said about the third floor corridor and the Cerberus, and how Snape was limping after Halloween -"

"Stop," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "My Head of House wasn't cursing me. I really do appreciate the concern, but I'm certain there's been a misunderstanding."

"Harry, it's the only explanation..."

"No," Harry corrected, "It's one of many explanations. Listen...I'm guessing it was you who set the fire during the game, and I'm grateful that you'd...set a teacher on fire to save me, but I'm sure Professor Snape wasn't trying to kill me."

"But it stopped after -"

"So it could have been anyone sitting beside him, really. It could have been anyone, Hermione. There's probably no shortage of people who want to mess with me, but I'm 93% sure that Professor Snape isn't one of them."

Hermione sighed. "Well, 93 _is_ a pretty big number."

"It is. Plus, if I died, he'd have one less person to hate."

"That's true. I'm sure he wouldn't want that."

Ron just looked at them in confusion. He'd lost them at 93 'percent'. What was a 'percent' anyway?

* * *

"I'm quite sure it wasn't Professor Snape..."

"And if it wasn't the traitor -" as Tom had taken to calling him "- it must have been Quirrell," Tom finished.

"Professor Quirrell?" Harry asked in surprise.

Tom scowled at him. "Yes, of course. Who else would want to kill you?"

"So my headaches...you really think he's carrying a horcrux?"

"I see no other reasonable explanation."

"And he's definitely working for you, or, um, the other you?"

"It would seem so."

"Well, then, can't I just go talk to him or something?"

Tom sighed. "It never ceases to amaze me how violently you underestimate the truth as a destructive force."

Harry frowned. "What am I supposed to do, then? I can't just let him kill me."

"No, that would be rather counterproductive. We do need to speak with him...but only once we have proof that he is loyal to Lord Voldemort."

"And how do we get that?"

"Consider it an extracurricular project."

Harry grimaced. "What if he kills me first?"

"I have faith in you."

"You only ever have faith in me when it's convenient for you...I thought you trust no one."

"I lied."

"And next time I ask you if you trust me, when you'd usually say that you trust no one, what will you say then?"

"That I trust no one."

"But that's a lie!"

"No, it's the truth."

Harry was so confused that he thought he might burst into tears. "Good _night_ Tom!" he exclaimed, stuffing the mirror under his pillow, and ignoring the aching in his skull as he pulled the covers over himself and committed his mind to chasing after the darkness of slumber.

* * *

Next time: Christmas!

Thanks for reading! Remember to leave me a review!


	18. Christmas Wishes and the Heart's Desire

**Disclaimer:** I solemnly swear that I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

 **Chapter 18: Christmas Wishes and the Heart's Desire**

"Whatever happens, Harry, I want you to know that I'm proud to have known a great warrior such as yourself."

Harry looked over at Fred, a soft smile gracing his face. "Likewise. You've fought bravely, Fred, and with honour. I won't forget your sacrifice – victory will belong to us both."

Fred nodded, eyes tearing a little. "They will sing songs of this day."

Harry's smile faltered a bit. "Who're _they_?"

"Fair maidens and brave warriors such as ourselves."

"Alright, then, I'll trust you on that one."

"Wise choice. Now, on my count – one, two, THREE!"

At that moment, Fred burst through the roof of their snow fort, drawing rapid fire from Ron and George while Harry crawled to the side.

" _Wingardium Leviosa!_ "

And with that, Ron and George's snow fort rose through the air like a floating castle, only to come crashing down their heads a moment later.

Seeing their foes vanquished and covered in the ruins of their former home base, Harry and Fred let out a whoop of victory, and shook hands fervently.

"Really Harry, a pleasure," Fred was saying, when he was tackled to the ground by George, who he just barely managed to kick away so he could make a break for it, his twin hot on his tail.

Meanwhile, Ron glared at Harry.

"That's cheating!" Ron said angrily, "You used magic!"

Harry looked at him, aghast. "You don't mean you expected us to conquer you the _muggle_ way?"

"Yes!"

Harry shook his head. "Well, you should have said so."

"It was implied!"

"Doesn't count. Besides, it's too late now. We already won."

Ron scowled. "Just like a Slytherin, playing dirty."

Harry grinned. "As I recall, you were the one who proposed doing battle with this Slytherin."

Ron rolled his eyes.

"So, _Harry Dursley_ ," Ron began as he brushed snow off himself, "What do you want to do now? It's still a couple of hours before sundown."

Harry smiled subtly. This was the the perfect time to implement his plan. "Didn't you say you know the groundskeeper?"

Ron looked surprised at his question. "Who, Hagrid? Yeah, I know him."

"Is it true that he's half giant? I heard a rumour...I'd really like to meet him."

"Oh, sure! Hagrid's brilliant, and I'm sure he'd love some company."

Harry nodded excitedly.

The path to Hagrid's hut (for that's what it was, apparently - a hut) was an uneasy crawl down the snow covered slopes Hogwarts sat upon. It wasn't too steep, but it was slippery and vaguely treacherous nonetheless...Harry thought it might have something to do with all the ice. They ended up tripping and slipping down part way, but in the end it shortened their journey, which Harry was thankful for, because it was starting to get a bit chilly out. The sooner they got back to the castle, the better.

With three sharp raps, Ron knocked on the large door of the hut, and not a few moments later, an enormous man answered, who Harry recognized as the man that showed them to the boats on September 1st. More importantly, though, he bore a marked resemblance to the boy he'd seen in Tom's memories – Rubeus Hagrid, an unusually large Hogwarts student who had a penchant for collecting dangerous magical creatures. Tom was convinced that if someone knew about the Cerberus on the third floor, it would be him. Tom also seemed to be under the impression that Mr. Hagrid was rather thick, and would be easy to coerce into revealing information.

"Well if it isn' Ron Weasley, and – well who's this you've brought with yeh this time, Ron?"

"Oh, this is my friend Tom Ev-"

Harry stuck out a hand, kicking Ron a bit. "Harry Potter, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Hagrid's eyes went wide. "Well bless my soul – Harry Potter? I haven' seen yeh since yeh were jus' a little 'un!" he exclaimed, shaking Harry's hand avidly before ushering them into his hut.

Harry could not help but notice how rustic and homey the place was – in fact, he thought it was rather charming. It definitely had...what do people say? Character? It certainly wasn't a dull place, despite the earthy, muted colours that painted it, which were cheerily offset by the bright red socks hanging near the hearth and the pink umbrella in the corner. It was all one room, so he could see a small kitchen to his right, and a quilted bed on his left. The place Hagrid showed them to was a rickety wooden kitchen table, seated dead centre in the charmingly cluttered hut.

"You knew me when I was a baby?" Harry inquired curiously as he sat down.

"Well of course I did! I was the one who brought yeh t' Dumbledore the night that...well...yeh know..."

Harry nodded slowly. "I see, well, it's lovely to see you again, then."

Hagrid beamed at him. "Likewise, Harry, likewise!" He went over to the kitchen and brought back a plate. "Cookies?"

Ron refused, and Harry politely followed suit, figuring there was a good reason Ron (who was always hungry) passed up a chance to eat.

"Well, suit yourself. Now, what brings yeh all the way out here?"

"Harry wanted to meet you," Ron piped up, causing Hagrid's smile to widen even further.

"I was curious as to what exactly you do here, Mr. Hagrid," Harry said.

"Oh, jus' Hagrid, Harry, jus' Hagrid! Anyway, I'm the one who watches o'er the grounds here at Hogwarts, and I take care of all the magical creatures aroun' here too."

Harry tilted his head a bit. "I figured as much, but I was wondering, with the creatures, what's it that you actually _do?"_

Hagrid looked very pleased by the question. "Well," he began, "It really depends on the sort of creature, yeh see? Some of 'em just go off 'n do their own thing, but some of 'em need some tender lovin' care, if yeh know what I mean. They need feedin', and watchin', and company and all that."

Harry was smiling as he listened. "So what kind of creatures do you take care of, Hagrid?"

"Oh, well there's the creatures that P'fessor Kettleburn works with, yeh know, for the Care of Magical Creatures class. I've got a colony of flobberworms out back that I keep around, and I keep some fire crabs down by the lake. It's always a challenge keepin' them away from the salamanders living near by...they don' particularly get along, yeh see," Hagrid said, sounding a little distraught about the last part.

Harry nodded solemnly, and Ron was starting to look quite entranced.

"What about bigger creatures?" Harry asked.

"Oh, well, I'm the one that keeps all the thestrals healthy and clean, and I keep a couple of hippogriffs aroun' here too. Third year magical creatures, they are. Oh, and unicorns too."

"Unicorns!" Ron exclaimed, "You have unicorns?"

"Oh, sure I do! They make 'emselves scarce in the winter, but yeh come down 'ere when it gets a bit warmer, and I'll introduce yeh."

Harry and Ron looked at each other and grinned.

"I think I might really enjoy that, Hagrid, thank you."

"Yeah, thanks Hagrid!"

"Oh, it's no problem at all, really."

"And what about creatures that aren't used for the Care of Magical Creatures class?"

"Well...there are some who make a home here at Hogwarts, yeh see? And I try to keep 'em comfortable, and safe away from all the students. For instance, I make sure the grindylows are well fed down in the Great Lake, and I keep the bugbears away from the students, deep in the Forbidden Forest."

"Bugbears?" Ron said curiously.

"Oh, yeah, funny little things they are, once yeh get to know 'em. But not so good around strangers – they can be a bit temperamental...they rather enjoy scaring people, yeh see."

"Do you take care of any fairies, Hagrid?" Harry could not help but wonder.

"Ah, that, Harry, is quite a challenge. Yeh see, I got me pixies 'n me brownies, and they need lots of attention, those ones – the challenge is keepin' 'em away from the students, so they don't go off causing trouble. Especially gotta watch out for those joint eaters."

Ron gulped audibly. "Joint eaters?"

"Oh, yeah, yeh want to stay away from those, Ron."

Ron nodded, a bit pale.

"I sometimes get nomad types to," Hagrid said thoughtfully, "A herd of wild hippogriffs, a kelpie, or a shellycoat here or there. I make sure they enjoy their stay here at Hogwarts."

"So, any magical creatures on the school grounds – you'd know about them?" Harry inquired.

"Oh of course! I take care of all of 'em!"

Harry nodded, a curious look on his face. "Because, you see, I heard this rumour the other day, about a giant three-headed dog chained up in the third floor corridor."

Hagrid grew alarmed at that. "Fluffy? How did yeh know about Fluffy?"

"Fluffy?" Ron asked, looking between them with wide eyes, "There's a giant three-headed dog and it's called _Fluffy?"_

"Yeah, he's mine – bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year. I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the -"

"The?" Harry prompted.

"Now see here, yeh ought not go asking questions about that, yeh hear? That's between Dumbledore an' Nicholas Flamel -" Hagrid stopped short at that, looking furious with himself. "I shouldn' 'ave said that."

Harry shook his head. "Don't worry about it Hagrid. I was just curious, is all. Ron and I will forget all about it, won't we Ron?"

Ron nodded, looking very confused about the whole thing, but Hagrid seemed quite satisfied with that.

"Now," he said, "Can I get yeh some tea?"

It would appear that Tom was correct. Hagrid was a lovely person, a pleasant conversationalist, and a wonderful host, but he really wasn't too bright.

* * *

"The Philosopher's Stone."

Harry frowned. "The who's what?"

Tom scowled at him. "The Philosopher's Stone. It's an alchemical compound fabled to manufacture wealth and eternal life for its owner."

"Wait, what? How can a _stone_ do that?"

"I am no alchemist, Harry, or else I would have made one for myself long ago."

"Fair enough. So..." Harry began questioningly.

"So what does this tell us?" Tom asked patronizingly.

"That...Dumbledore's hiding the Philosopher's Stone at Hogwarts for some reason."

"Yes, and what might that reason be?"

"Well, you said that Hogwarts is one of the safest places there is, right? Maybe it's just here for safekeeping?"

"And what's wrong with that theory, Harry?"

Harry frowned. "I thought that was a pretty good theory."

"But you're missing something," Tom said impatiently.

Harry bit his lip, making a face that could only be interpreted as the face of someone in deep thought. "Well...I suppose there's the question of why it needs to be protected...but that's obvious. It's really valuable, right?"

"Yes, and it's fair to assume that it has always been protected. But why Hogwarts? Why now?"

Harry's eyes widened. "If you know about the Stone, it's at least 10 years old! So where's it been for the last 10 years? Why would they move it now? That's it, right? That's what we're missing."

Tom seemed pleased with his deduction. "So tell me, Harry, why here? Why now?"

"Because...someone's looking for it! Professor Dumbledore knows that, which is why he offered to hide it here for that Nicholas Flamel guy."

"Correct. Now, who might be looking for it?"

Harry's eyes lit up. "Voldemort!"

"Precisely."

"So Voldemort's sent Professor Quirrell to find the Stone for him."

Tom glared at him a bit. "We don't know for sure that it's Quirrell, Harry. We cannot afford to make leaps like that."

Harry pouted. "Well, what do we do, then?"

Tom raised an eyebrow, making it clear that he wasn't going to answer for him.

"Well, we need proof, I suppose, that Professor Quirrell works for Voldemort."

"And how can we acquire said proof without exposing ourselves?"

"Well, I suppose the easiest thing to do would be to wait until Quirrell...or whoever it is...tries to steal it, and then meet him there, and introduce myself."

"...introduce yourself?"

"Well, yes, that's what one does when one wants to make a friend, isn't it?"

"...make a friend?"

"Well, yes, that's what this is all about, isn't it? We want to make friends with Voldemort 1.0, right?"

Tom sighed, looking a bit exasperated. "Yes, Harry, we want to 'make friends' with Voldemort."

"1.0."

"What?"

"He's Voldemort Version 1.0, and you're Voldemort Version 2.0, otherwise known as Tom."

"...indeed."

* * *

"So, what would you normally be doing around this time?" Harry asked curiously.

He and Ron were sitting in the Great Hall, enjoying treats on Christmas Eve night. It was about a half hour before curfew, and they were alone, seeming very small in that cavernous room. Every time they shifted in their seats, or took a bite and chewed, echoes reverberated off the vast stone walls around them, reminding them that they were present and awake, and quite alone.

"Well, you know, the usual."

"No, I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"I don't know what the usual is. I've never celebrated Christmas before."

Ron stared at him, baffled. "You've...never celebrated Christmas before?"

Harry shook his head.

"Blimey, mate, that's sort of messed up, isn't it?"

"I guess so. So what is it you usually do on Christmas Eve?"

"Well," Ron began contemplatively, "Usually we have a nice dinner, you know, with ham and mashed potatoes and carrots and typical family dinner foods and whatnot...everyone's home then, so it's usually quite loud – everyone wants to know everything about what everyone else's been doing. And after that is desert – only meal of the year where there's more sweets than actual dinner. Mum loves Christmas, and she and Ginny start baking weeks ahead of time. There's usually cookies everywhere by the end of it...lots of gingerbread and shortbread. Honestly, it's a bit ridiculous – by the end of it, none of us want to taste another teaspoon of sugar again! That is, until New Years...

"Anyway, after eating, we usually just hang about by the tree, take turns telling stories in front of the fire, and everyone gets to open one present, and we all take turns guessing what it is, and whoever gets the most wrong has to run outside with no shoes on, and then..."

Seeing Harry's eyes beginning to glisten, Ron sobered a bit. "It's all rather dull, actually."

Harry smiled sadly. "No, it doesn't sound dull at all. Really, it sounds brilliant, all of it. I hope that...had things been different..." He took a deep breath. "I think I'd have liked to have a Christmas just like that."

Ron looked away, not quite sure what to say to that.

* * *

With no Dursleys to cook for and wait on, Harry slept in until Tom made his presence known on Christmas morning.

The Slytherin dormitories were rather like his old cupboard in that they had no windows – well, they had windows, but the sun was never more than a distant, muffled light drenched in the green waters of the lake above, seeming very quiet and far away. It wasn't quite bright enough in the mornings to force him to wake soon after sunrise. He'd gotten into a routine, of course, at Hogwarts; he went to bed at the same time every night, and had no trouble waking up in the mornings. But last night...well, he wasn't quite sure when exactly he fell asleep, because he'd done so with a book in his hands. Despite the fact that waking up to pain was never pleasant, Harry _was_ thankful Tom had wakened him before he drooled on _A Beginner's Guide to Spell Crafting_ too much.

There was no one around, but Harry went through the motions of dressing himself in his uniform just as he did every morning – Ron had taken to teasing him about wearing his school uniform over Christmas break, but what he didn't realize is that Harry might even prefer a pink frilly dress to Dudley's old cast-offs. They reminded him just a bit too much of Number 4 Privet Drive, a perfectly horrible place for perfectly horrible people, who were under the impression that being horrible was somehow normal. Ever did he endeavour to forget the whole thing.

Upon entering the Common Room, he was surprised to see that, resting under the small decorated evergreen that sat in the corner, was a small package that had not been there the night before. Curiously, he took the package in his hands, and upon seeing a small card with his name on it sitting on top, he began to unwrap it.

His attempts to unwrap it were clumsy – he'd never unwrapped a present before – but when he finally managed it, something thin, fluid, and silvery-grey slipped through his fingers and went slithering to the floor.

Harry picked what appeared to be a glimmering, silver cloth off the floor, staring at it with wonder in his eyes. It was perhaps the softest and smoothest thing he'd ever held in his hands, like water woven into silk.

Wrapping the material around himself, Harry looked down to see how it looked on him, but, suddenly, he wasn't there anymore. Eyes widening, he dashed to the mirror in the corner, and gaped at what he saw. Sure enough, his own face stared back at him, but only his face – the rest of him had completely vanished.

 _An invisiblility cloak,_ Tom supplied helpfully.

"Yes, because that wasn't entirely obvious," Harry replied with humour, ignoring the pain in his head.

He rubbed his forehead, and that was when he noticed a small note lying on the ground beside him.

Pulling off the strange cloak, he reached down to pick up the letter. Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen before were the following words:

 _Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you.  
_ _Use it well.  
_ _A Very Merry Christmas to you._

Harry stared at the note, puzzled.

 _Dumbledore's handwriting,_ Tom commented mentally, curiosity evident in his thoughts.

Harry frowned. "How curious. I suppose my father was quite close to Dumbledore then?"

There was no answer.

"Well then..." He smiled. "I know exactly what I'm going to do with this."

* * *

The remainder of the day, Harry spent exploring the castle under the guise of his invisibility cloak. The ability to roam the castle uninhibited was...freeing, and he quite liked it.

The first thing he had done, of course, was visit the restricted section in the library. First years couldn't get passes, so Harry hadn't had the chance to check it out yet, much to his disappointment and Tom's ire. After scanning the enormous shelves with an huge grin on his face, he went about looking for a copy of _Magick Moste Evile,_ which, to Harry, was quite legendary at this point. Tom said it was an essential reference book, and among several of his housemates it was well known as the one book their parents had that they weren't allowed to touch. When Harry finally located it he was thrilled to find that not only was is adequately creepy and mysterious looking, it was also _gigantic_. It would take him ages to read through it all! A worthy challenge indeed.

The restricted section of the library was a little like heaven to him. So much knowledge gathered in one place, and all of it, to varying degrees, forbidden. He blamed it on Tom – he got a certain thrill from knowing things he wasn't supposed to know. Yes, definitely Tom's fault.

What had him especially pleased, though, was that being able to access the restriction section would allow him to get started on his project. Well, it wasn't so much a project as the beginnings of a vague-ish ambition. The history books he'd gorged himself on had taught him about many great wizards and witches, but the most data had been collected on Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and Voldemort, and he had noticed something very troubling about these three characters. Grindelwald was a dark wizard, Dumbledore was a light wizard, and Voldemort, again, dark. Light, dark, simple, cut and dry. Where did these distinctions come from? What _was_ the difference between a light wizard and a dark one? He figured it must have something to do with the type of magic one practices; light or dark. But why not practice both? What stopped people from becoming exceptionally skilled at both light and dark magic? He hadn't found a clear answer on the question, and Tom refused to comment, so he had come to a decision; as long as he had no reason to believe it wasn't possible, he'd endeavour to master both light and dark magic. Tom seemed very amused and somewhat pleased by this conviction, and had suggested that Harry begin his studies in dark magic on his own time, seeing as he would learn plenty of light magic in school. That's where the copy of _Magick Moste Evile_ came in. It was a shame he couldn't take it with him to read in bed, but he'd resolved to come back to take a look at it regularly. Perhaps Thursday nights.

After leaving the library, he roamed around aimlessly for a while, eyes wide as he observed the vastness that was Hogwarts Castle. Despite the fact that he was in an enormous magical castle full of moving staircases, living paintings, and secret passageways, though, his expedition was rather eventless until he found himself in what looked like a disused classroom. He'd deduced as much from the dark shapes of rickety old desks and chairs which were piled against the walls, which seemed to be covered in a thin layer of dust. There was nothing particularly special about the room...except for one thing. And what a thing it was. Propped against the wall facing him was something that very clearly didn't belong there; something clean, and bright, and grand. It was an enormous mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate golden frame, standing on two clawed feet. Carved starkly along the top were the words:

 _'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi'_

Curiosity getting the better of him, he took a step in front of the mirror, expecting to see nothing, as he was still under his cloak, but his eyes widened as he observed a reflection. His eyes widened even further when he realized it was not his reflection that he saw – it was his father's. Indeed, he looked just like he did in the monument in Godric's Hollow, except...Harry gasped. It wasn't his father; it was him. He recognized his eyes – no one had eyes quite like him; a bright, almost ghostly green that nearly glowed in the dark. It was him in the mirror, maybe a decade or two older, standing just where Harry was now...

Wait, no, that wasn't right. He wasn't standing; he was _floating_. It was then that Harry realized that in the mirror, the classroom he was in was filled to the ceiling with water, his older self just floating there with a serene smile on his face. He could see how pale his skin was; his lips were blue. But he was still smiling, and his smile was perhaps the happiest, most content smile he'd ever seen on his face.

Then, slowly, his older self began to open the hand he had been keeping balled into a fist at his side. As he did so, a wispy stream of blood began to stain the water, dancing into shapes of delicate crimson flowers as it did. It was then that Harry saw that his reflection's finger was sliced open, and bleeding profusely. He began to shake, as his mind traveled backward, to a memory, a memory lost in the days before he understood what he saw in his dreams; the days before he knew the name Tom Riddle. He remembered – the knife, the blood on his finger, the bathtub, the _water_ , so cold and numbing and welcoming. Why was he remembering this? He'd almost forgotten. _Almost_. It was his one secret, the one thing he had never told Tom. And that's when he panicked. Tom was with him. Tom was always with him – Tom saw exactly what he saw, and his secret was no longer a secret.

Frantically, he turned away from the mirror, his heart beating at an incredible pace.

What was that? What was he seeing? Why would the mirror show him something like that?

He glanced cautiously over his shoulder, staring at the words carved on the mirror frame.

 _'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi'_

 _'I show not your face but your hearts desire'_

All the breath escaped his lungs. He didn't understand. He didn't understand at all.

He didn't. He didn't want that. That wasn't what his heart desired. What it did desire, he had no idea, but surely it wasn't _that_.

Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his breathing. It was just a mirror. Just an image. Just a trick. Just a magic trick.

Once his breathing was steady once again, he steeled himself and said, "It's nothing, Tom. Nothing."

And with that, he fled the room, never to return.

* * *

Yes, yes, I have a strange obsession with mirrors. They really scare me, ok?

But to those of you who commented on the imagery of Harry pricking his finger at his parents' grave, and whether or not that was a foreshadowing of something, here's your second clue.

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review!


	19. Thanatophobia

**Disclaimer:** I own...crystallized pineapple? Oh, and chocolate covered pretzels from Walmart.

* * *

 **Chapter 19: Thanatophobia**

Lord Voldemort was afraid. Of what? Of death. It was one of those fears that lingers in the back of one's mind, darkening one's thoughts, stirring into a toxic obsession in the black of night, when all else is silent. It usually lay dormant – after all, he was an exceptionally powerful wizard, and had horcruxes to keep him tethered to the land of living should his power and skill fail him. However...there were times when his fear would make itself known. And that had happened far too many times of late.

First there was the troll. His Gryffindorish idiot of a host decided that playing the hero was somehow a smart idea, and had nearly gotten himself flattened into pureed eleven-year-old wizard by a _mountain troll_ of all things. To run off and risk himself for another person, another person who was virtually a stranger...well, it was unlike Harry, and went against everything he'd taught him. Harry was kind to a fault, yes, but he had learnt his lesson over the years – _mind your own business_. It was a basic lesson that the boy had picked up on rather quickly. But, suddenly, years of experience and self-reflection evaporated, and were replaced by a burning urge to ensure that that _mudblood_ was unharmed. Foolish, foolish, incredibly foolish.

The only reason the punishment he doled out to Harry wasn't more harsh was that, as the boy had highlighted, while his actions were foolish, the results were...desirable. In more ways than the boy knew.

The boy had made his first kill – it was the first time the child had taken the life of a sentient creature, and, to his delight, was relatively unaffected by it. He had expressed disappointment at the troll's 'untimely demise', but was otherwise quite content with the fact that he'd decapitated a magical creature with its own distinct psyche and conception of self, complete with recognizable emotions. Given the sort of boy Harry was, there was no doubt that the fact that this creature was fully aware of itself, and was a living creature of intelligence (however meager that intelligence was), had crossed his mind, and was acknowledged...and then promptly ignored. The child was showing promise, and he was pleased to find that the boy's candid way of looking at the world could, in cases like this, actually work _against_ his kind nature. He didn't have to kill the troll; it should have been possible to incapacitate it - but he did so anyway. He was _ruthless_ , in a way, and he was so without any feelings of anger and hatred to spur him on.

If that hadn't been evidence of the boy's potential, his confrontation with Draco Malfoy would have been. He could not help but laugh gleefully when he recalled the burst of furious magic that had pulsed from the boy's body, matching his anger gladly. The boy had only been tired and irritated, and he had broken another child's leg because of a mere insult (and not even an insult directed at him; rather, at his mother). When truly angered into pure white, blinding rage, little Harry Potter would be positively _deadly_. Oh, how he was looking forward to seeing that. He was still...somewhat disturbed by the child's kind and innocent nature, but these recent events had indicated that it might not be as much of an obstacle as he had originally thought it might be.

And then there was his reputation. The whole affair had done wonders for the boy's reputation. To the rest of Hogwarts he was the Boy Who Lived, a Slytherin boy who had risked his life to save a muggleborn student - a Gryffindor, no less. He was kind, brave, considerate, and living up to the reputation his parents had set a precedence for. To Slytherin House, though, Harry Potter was now a powerful and somewhat volatile little boy, with the potential to be a frightening foe or valuable ally. It was perfect. Months of planning and scheming was condensed into the events of one night.

The final reward Harry's actions had wrought was his friendship with the muggleborn witch. While he wasn't too keen on the friendship himself, Harry had now acquired a rival he could keep a close eye on, which would benefit him in the long run. Having someone to compete with - on an academic level at least; Harry's actual magical prowess would forever dwarf the mudblood's - would accelerate his academic efforts, and the value of intelligent conversation could not be discounted. Because despite what she was, the muggleborn witch _was_ intelligent. There was no denying it. Not to mention, the girl had expressed an interest in learning occlumency, which meant he could finally begin teaching Harry legilimency. Yes, the boy's friendship with the mudblood had potential, that was for certain.

So, all in all, the events of Halloween night had not been entirely futile.

Not long after the troll incident, however, came the Quidditch incident. He had tried to tell him, Quidditch is _dangerous –_ so many opportunities to die in such a short amount of time. The one behind the curse was most likely Quirrell, who was working for his master soul; of that he was quite sure. Moreover, considering the presence of Harry's headaches in Defence against the Dark Arts, it was likely that he was also carrying a horcrux – he didn't think Quirrell was a horcrux himself (indeed, he had come to believe that creating a human horcrux was impossible without the very specific conditions Lily Potter had created...conditions that he had yet to unravel in their entirety), but there was no other explanation for the headaches.

Well, of course there was another explanation; there is always another explanation – and this fact was not to his advantage, seeing as he and Harry really could not afford to confront Quirrell until they were completely sure he was on their side – they couldn't have him running off to Dumbledore and revealing their secret, after all. They needed to make contact at just the right moment, which was, as Harry had deduced, the time at which Quirrell supposedly intended to steal the Stone. Only then could they be sure that at the very least, the squeamish Defence against the Dark Arts teacher wasn't on Dumbledore's side. There was also the possibility that the whole thing was a trap. But what's life without a little risk? He hated risk, of course, the nasty little variable, but it was inevitable.

Quirrell...why his master soul had chosen the timid fool as his servant, he could not figure out. Surely there were other options. Severus was probably out of the question, at this point, but both Rosier and Avery had older children attending the school. Even they had to be more competent than that blithering fool of a professor. Of course, it could all be an act, which would be impressive indeed. Perhaps the Defence against the Dark Arts professor was simply an incredible actor of impressive skill. Yes, that had to be it...right?

Yes, now that he thought about it, it was definitely an act. It had to be. Even at his most desperate, he'd never trust anyone _that_ weak.

Either way, one thing was for certain – Dumbledore had chosen his Defence against the Dark Arts professor poorly...but it was possible he was running out of options, at this point. Perhaps he _shouldn't_ have hexed the Defence against the Dark Arts position...it was an important subject, and Harry would no doubt have to endure 6 more years of unsatisfactory instruction in it. Oh well, what's done is done. The boy had _Lord Voldemort_ to teach him, and no one the old fool could hire would possibly measure up.

It had been quite a while since he had taught the boy anything, though. Legilimency was an important skill, and Harry would have a chance to practice once he started teaching the mudblood occlumency, but there was so much else the boy needed to learn. Fortunately, the invisibility cloak Dumbledore had given them provided the perfect chance to further Harry Potter's education.

Now that the child had access to the restricted section of the Hogwarts library, he could begin learning the dark arts. It was essential, after all, that he start early. Harry Potter's magical core was pure white, chaotic, and so potent it was corrosive; light magic would come naturally to him, as would powerful, forceful spells, light or dark - after all, the boy's magic was almost constantly begging to be released so it could wreak havoc. The boy wasn't aware of this, of course, but given his proximity to the child's magical core, he had a front row seat to the daily struggle between Harry Potter's subconscious self control and his magical core. It was amusing, but concerning nonetheless. Mastering the subtler, finer points of the complex dark magic Lord Voldemort favoured would require time and effort...however, he had no doubt it was possible, given how much the child's contemplative personality contrasted with the nature of his magical core. Indeed, with the strange combination that was the boy's determination, thoughtfulness, and power, he did not doubt that Harry Potter would accomplish anything he put his mind to. Well, almost anything.

The child wanted to master both light and dark magic. Really, Harry Potter's naivety was as endearing as it was irritating - even he had to admit that. Mastering light _and_ dark magic - what a feat that would be. The problem with mastering any sort of magic is that it necessarily mutates one's magical core, which in turn influences one's personality. This is why those who master dark magic quickly become obsessed with the complexity, decadence, and allure of the dark arts; this is why skilled dark magic practitioners were so fixated on gaining power and control - it became a part of them. This is also why masters of light magic like Dumbledore were so deeply connected to positive emotions and, irritatingly, moral rightness. It was impossible to remain unchanged by the magic one practices, making it difficult to practice any other kind of magic.

Still, though, it would be amusing to watch the boy try. Who knows? Maybe Harry Potter's affinity for completely overthrowing his expectations would extend farther than he thought possible. And perhaps his tendency toward mental instability might actually prove to be an advantage.

Either way, though, the boy needed to start practicing the dark arts - the sooner the better. Although, he'd need a place to practice...

It was too dangerous to show the child the Chamber yet. Too much could go wrong. However, the Room of Requirement was a good alternative – in fact, it was perfect. Yes, he'd give Harry directions to the Room of Requirement, and have him practice in there. It could be...a Christmas present. Yes, a Christmas present. After all, he couldn't have Dumbledore giving the boy gifts when he did not. That just wouldn't do.

The invisibility cloak...such a useful, troublesome object...

The boy was extremely grateful for the cloak, and rightfully so, but as useful an object it was, it was already creating problems; it had allowed the boy to find the thrice-damned mirror in that abandoned classroom.

He wasn't sure what kind of treacherous magic it was, but anything that claims to show you your heart's desire is no doubt incredibly dangerous, particularly to Harry. He would have thought the boy would see in the mirror his parents, or the friends he hoped to make at Hogwarts...something along those lines. Something...sentimental. Something that would create distance between them; something that would loosen his hold on the boy. But no...once again, the boy had to go and throw his expectations out the window.

Apparently love, friendship, and family were not what Harry Potter desired most. What he desired was...well, he wasn't sure. The image he saw through the boy's eyes had been...grim; morbid. His older self, floating there, face pale; it looked like he was close to death, despite the content smile that had been on his face. And then there was the bleeding hand.

How could _that_ be what the boy desired? What was _that_? Harry Potter was a twisted little creature, in his own sweet, innocent way; a strange child with strange thoughts and strange desires. There was something wrong with the boy, but he wasn't _suicidal_. He couldn't be. What about that heartfelt speech he gave in front of his parents' grave? His promise to survive? What happened to that? How could the boy want to _die?_ What had gone wrong? What could have possibly gone so wrong?

No, he needed to calm down. What he had seen in the mirror...it was more than just a drowning boy. The smile, the bleeding hand, the water – it was extremely specific. If the boy wanted to kill himself, wouldn't he have seen himself hanging from a noose, or standing upon a great precipice? Something more...conventional? People don't drown themselves when they want to commit suicide. It would be extraordinarily slow and painful – Harry was old enough to realize that. No, there was something pointedly unique about the scene he had witnessed, and the reasonable conclusion to arrive at was that it was based on a memory, something the boy had experienced before he had awakened. What it was, he couldn't begin to guess, but the child had had some kind of experience involving near death by drowning, of that he was quite certain. What he wasn't sure about was why the boy would want to relive it.

Something had happened - what exactly it was was probably of little importance - and it had revealed to the boy that thin veil between life and death; the child had looked death in the face and wanted to do it again. Was it the thrill? The loss of control? Did Harry Potter meet someone at the boundary between worlds, someone he wished to return to? Did he see something, learn something that was crucial to him? There was something that lay at the border between life and death that Harry Potter desired. But what was it?

Moreover, why was it specifically as an _adult_ that he wanted to relive this poignant moment? Why wasn't Harry Potter, the 11 year old boy, the one floating in the mirror? No, apparently the boy wanted to relive some moment from his past at some point in his distant future. Why, he couldn't begin to imagine. He'd given up on trying to unravel the subtleties of Harry Potter's mind long ago.

For now...it would appear that he was safe. The boy had seemed just as unnerved by the image as he had been, and had been quite insistent that it was nothing. The sentiment was sincere – he had felt the potent fear and confusion in the boy's mind as he said it. Whatever twisted dream Harry Potter subconsciously desired for his future, was still unknown to the boy himself; he had time. Time to change him. Time to convince Harry Potter that there was no worse fate than death.

* * *

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it or have something to say, please leave a review - it really does help in the writing process :)


	20. Extracurricular Activities

**Disclaimer:** Sometimes I love Harry Potter so much it makes me want to cry, but unfortunately, I don't own any of it. I think if I had been brilliant enough to invent the wizarding world, I could die happy. As it stands, I cannot.

* * *

 **Chapter 20: Extracurricular Activities**

As it turned out, the invisibility cloak was to be useful for more than wandering around the castle aimlessly.

Now, in Harry's opinion, wandering around the castle aimlessly was plenty productive – after all, there was _so much_ to explore – but Tom insisted on highlighting its more practical benefits. For example, it allowed Harry to easily access Tom's Christmas gift. That's right, Tom gave him a Christmas gift. It was called the Room of Requirement.

 _Show me the place where everything's hidden_

 _Show me the place where everything's hidden_

 _Show me the place where everything's hidden_

Harry had been awed by the sight of it; it was vast, enormous, and filled with _clutter_.

The room itself was the size of one of those old, ornate cathedrals he'd never been into, and it stretched out before him like a miniature city, built from hundreds of years worth of abandoned trinkets and treasures. Narrow paths wove between treacherously stacked piles of old furniture and massive piles of books, some stretching on and on, meandering through the labyrinth of hidden things, and others coming up short before a wall of wood, stone, parchment, and dust. Hidden in cracks and crevices were chipped bottles of treacherous-looking substances, funny old hats, dulled jewels, dusty cloaks, cracked shells, and other random items he didn't expect to find. He also found dangerous objects like rusting swords, daggers, and shields, and even more foreboding items like a thick, heavy, blood-stained axe. And then there were things that were just plain odd, like the enormous stuffed troll he found cowering in a rickety old wardrobe, and something in a cage that had long-since died, its skeleton having not two, not four, but five legs. He thought he would have rather liked to have met whatever had died in that cage, as it would probably be very educational to ask it how exactly it managed to walk with 5 legs.

Harry was convinced that was he so inclined, he could have spent years in there without getting bored; there were thousands of books to read, cupboards to search, and trinkets to fix. It was a truly fantastic place. Imagine Harry's shock when, after wandering around in there for a few hours, he was informed by Tom of the true nature of the room he was in. It was a room with endless possibilities; the Room of Requirement could be whatever he wanted it to be - all he had to do was pace in front of a wall in the seventh floor corridor, thinking about what he wanted.

 _A warm fire and hot chocolate_

 _A warm fire and hot chocolate_

 _A warm fire and hot chocolate_

Sure enough, he was able to summon a plush, cozy couch in front of a fireplace, complete with a table holding the biggest mug of hot chocolate he'd ever seen...except there'd been no hot chocolate in it. Apparently, the Room of Requirement, or the Come and Go Room, could do just about anything except create food. It made sense, of course, but Harry had to give it a try, much to Tom's annoyance.

However, just about anything else was fair game – so far, he'd summoned an exact replica of his dorm room, a copy of the Slytherin Common Room, a gigantic heated swimming pool, several libraries, and a small forest. To be honest, Harry thought that the Room of Requirement was undoubtedly the most spectacular feat of magic he had yet witnessed - truly, he hadn't even considered that such a thing could be possible; even knowing how incredible magic could be, he would not have guessed that something like the Room of Requirement existed. He was filled with wonderment every time his mind wandered to the Come and Go Room, and he was entranced by its boundless potential and the fact that he _had no idea how it worked_.

Tom didn't know either. He just said it was a gift from Hogwarts.

And what a gift it was. Now Harry had a place to go when he needed to be on his own, or wanted to practice spells that were...best kept private. It was the perfect gift, and he couldn't thank Tom enough.

However, exploring the Room of the Requirement wasn't the only thing that had occupied his attention of late. Aside from giving him ready access to his Christmas present, the cloak had also allowed Tom and him to further their goal of solving the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone. Or, more specifically, it played a key role in assisting their eliminating of the conundrum that was discerning Professor Quirrell's loyalties.

Tom said there was something called a 'warding spell' that he could perform on the room where Fluffy was chained up. Simply put, the spell would alert him if Professor Quirrell in particular entered the room and opened the trap door. It was not a simple spell, and Tom was quite insistent that he needed to perform it with his own wand. Even then, it would take a couple of hours to properly cast, and would drain Tom of so much energy it would take months for him to recover – indeed, while the ward remained undisturbed, he would need to be constantly feeding it his own magic, because apparently Harry's wasn't quite up to the task.

"Your magic is just about as subtle as a tidal wave. Wards are intricate magical structures, and unfortunately, everything your magic touches tends toward entropy."

Harry'd been nigh heartbroken to hear this, because he really, _really_ wanted to learn this warding thing.

"B-but...no...that can't be - I...I don't know how to deal with this, Tom!"

It had taken several rather pathetic attempts to console him before Tom finally convinced him that a few years of practicing magic with a wand would force his magic to confine itself more readily, allowing him to perform more delicate spells like warding. Suffice it to say, Harry was very relieved, because he didn't know if he could handle hitting a wall so early on in his magical education.

Soon after they'd managed to ward Fluffy's room, students began returning from their holidays, the castle filling itself to the brim once again. Harry was a bit put off by the return of what he could not help but absently think of as 'human clutter' (somewhat less interesting than the clutter in the Room of Requirement), but he was looking forward to seeing his new friends once again.

Naturally, when Hermione and Theo returned, he was eager to show off his new presents. He wasn't quite sure what the protocol for showing off presents was; indeed, he didn't want to seem too smug, or, Merlin forbid, rude. He'd agonized over the matter for about a night before Tom told him to stop sulking and just show them his presents. Apparently, it wasn't a big deal. Harry reluctantly agreed.

To that end, he'd left them both a note separately - Theo's on his pillow and Hermione's in her notebook - telling them to meet him in the seventh floor corridor at 8 pm on Thursday night. He'd told them separately, of course, because he feared that one of them might not come if they knew the other was also coming.

When they arrived, he was hiding under his cloak, standing in the corner.

Hermione scowled upon seeing Theo. "You!"

He scowled right back at her. "Me."

Hermione pointed at him accusingly. "This was a trick, wasn't it! You sent the note! Wait -"

"Actually, that was me," he spoke from his place in the corner, and relished in their surprise when he unveiled himself.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted, "Where on earth did you come from?"

Harry grinned gleefully, holding up the cloak and flourishing it dramatically with a spin.

Meanwhile, Theo's eyes had gone wide. "Is that...an invisibility cloak?"

"An invisibility cloak? What's an invisibility cloak?" Hermione exclaimed, of course not tolerating being out of the loop.

Theo completely ignored her, as usual, so Harry answered for him. "It's a cloak that makes you invisible!"

Hermione scowled at him, apparently completely dissatisfied with the answer.

Meanwhile, Theo was examining the cloak with a deeply fascinated look on his face. "It's very high quality. Where did you get it?"

Harry's grin faltered a bit. "Headmaster Dumbledore gave it to me."

Both of his friends' eyes went wide.

"Dumbledore?" Theo exclaimed. "Why would he give _you_ a Christmas gift, let alone one so expensive?"

Harry shrugged. "Apparently it belonged to my dad. He was just giving it back."

Theo quirked an eyebrow.

Now it was Hermione who was running her hands all over the cloak, exploring the texture. "How does it work?"

"I don't know. Do you know, Theo?"

He made a face that clearly said, "do I look like I know?". Instead of answering, he asked, "Why did you make me come all the way up here to show me? You could have just shown me in our room."

Hermione scowled, realizing she was being ignored once more.

Harry's lips quirked upward again. "Because, I have something else to show you."

And with that, he marched up to the wall in front of them, and began pacing.

 _Show me the place where everything's hidden_

 _Show me the place where everything's hidden_

 _Show me the place where everything's hidden_

"Harry, what are you -?"

Hermione's question was silenced when she saw an enormous doorway slowly morph into existence on the wall Harry had been pacing in front of, rising out of the stone like it was being carved out right in front of their eyes.

Harry looked over his shoulder with an impish grin. "Follow me."

With a flourish he led them into the enormous room, relishing in the awe on their faces.

Hermione looked like she was going to faint. "What is this place?"

"It's called the Room of Requirement, or the Come and Go Room. All you have to do is pace in front of that wall three times thinking about what you want, and the room will give it to you."

Hermione gasped. "But that's not possible!"

Harry smiled at her. "It's magic, Hermione, everything's possible."

She was about to argue when Theo spoke up. "Wait, so, you could have summoned anything, and your brain came up with _this?"_ he asked incredulously. "A room full of junk?"

Harry shook his head. "This is the room that's summoned when you want to hide something. This is hundreds of years worth of objects hidden away by Hogwarts students who never thought to come back for them."

"Brilliant," Hermione breathed.

Harry's grin widened. "I know! See, it might be a room full of junk, but I think it's really fantastic junk."

Theo rolled his eyes."How did you even find this place?"

Harry's grin turned mischievous in an attempt to hide the apprehensiveness he felt at the question. "That would be telling."

His friends glared at him.

"Anyway, I figured we could use this as our own secret room."

Hermione tilted her head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for example, I could pace outside the room and ask it for a 'secret library that only Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Theodore Nott can find'."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "Oh, that would be spectacular!" she exclaimed, the excitement on her face unmistakable.

Harry turned to Theo. "We could also use this room to practice spells that we...don't want to use in public."

Theo smirked darkly at the implication, and Hermione looked concerned.

"Also," Harry said, looking at Hermione again, "We can use this as a place to study occlumency!"

Hermione could not contain a giddy grin, at that, and Theo looked at Harry, curious. "You're learning occlumency?"

Harry shook his head. "I already know how to do it, but I'm going to teach Hermione. You can come too, if you want."

Theo nodded his head slowly. "I think I might take you up on that."

Harry smiled. "Now we can have our own secret study club! We can learn occlumency, do our homework, create our own potions, read all sorts of amazing things, practice our dueling, learn some dark arts -"

Hermione looked at him, alarmed. "Dark arts?"

Theo shook his head. "Honesty, Harry, not one of your better traits."

Harry smiled sheepishly. "I meant really nice, happy, light magic?"

Hermione scowled. "You can't fool me, Harry Potter, you mean to learn the dark arts!"

"Yeah," Theo piped up, "She may be a muggleborn but she's not stupid."

Harry was relieved when her glare turned on Theo.

"Listen," he began, unsure of himself. "I just want to learn magic." Which was true.

"Dark magic!"

"It's still magic!" Harry exclaimed. "I want to learn everything I can – I _need_ to learn everything I can."

"Everything? You want to learn about magic that hurts people – even though it's against the rules!?"

"Of course he does, he's an obsessive bookworm, aren't you, Harry?"

"I like to read just as much as Harry, and I've never gone looking for books on dark magic!"

"Because you're a goody-two-shoes teacher's pet!"

"I _am_ not!"

"You are too!"

This was...quickly getting out of hand. What could he say that would satisfy them both? He couldn't just pass this off as curiosity – Hermione wouldn't allow that. She was far too inquisitive and clever to let that slide. So what could he say? Well...the truth. Or at least, part of it. They were friends with him - as long as he was in danger, they would be too. Perhaps it was time they understood. "Lord Voldemort isn't dead."

His scar started to burn.

Meanwhile, the bickering ceased and the glare evaporating from Hermione's face, while Theo's smirk disappeared, replaced by a look of unmistakable horror.

"What are you talking about...?" Theo whispered.

"He never died," Harry said, "He's probably waiting out there somewhere, until he's powerful enough again..."

They both looked very alarmed.

"And then he'll come back to finish what he couldn't do ten years ago."

Both of his friends looked very pale at that.

"Harry," Hermione began shakily, "How could you possibly know that?"

 _Yes Harry, how could you possibly know that? You stupid, reckless little boy. Maybe you_ did _belong in Gryffindor._

"Because," Harry began tentatively, "My scar hurts. It burns, sometimes, like fire in my head. I've been doing some reading, and...it's a curse scar, you see...it's got dark magic in it, and it still hurts me. That means the dark magic in it is still active, and that means -"

"That the one who cast it is still alive," Theo finished for him.

Take that, Tom. He had a _perfectly reasonable_ explanation.

Harry nodded. "I don't know how much time I have. So I need to learn, Hermione, everything I can. Light, dark, it doesn't matter. What matters is how you use it. And I just want to protect myself."

Hermione shook her head. "But Harry, what about the teachers? What about Professor Dumbledore? Surely they'll protect you!"

Harry scowled reflexively, at that.

"What's that look for!?"

"They never helped before. I don't trust them," he blurted out.

Theo frowned. "What do you mean, they never helped before?"

 _Yet another hole for you to dig yourself out of_.

"I - nothing. Just...adults miss things. They think they always know what's best, but they don't. And I might be safe here at Hogwarts, but when I leave, I'm on my own."

"But what about your family?" cried Hermione.

Harry laughed a bit, at that. "I'm pretty sure they'd hand me over to Lord Voldemort themselves."

Hermione looked extremely alarmed at that. "Harry -"

"I'm just kidding, it's ok. They just don't like me much."

Hermione looked a bit unsure. "If you say so..."

"Anyway," he said, ignoring Theo's calculating stare, "I want to be able to protect myself, and Lord Voldemort won't try to kill me with a tickling charm. At least, I don't think so. That would actually be pretty cruel, now that I think of it...death by self-imposed suffocation, I guess it would be?"

"Harry! Don't joke like that."

He frowned. "I'm not joking. I'm completely serious."

Both of his friends grimaced at that.

"But what I mean to say is...I just want to stay alive. So...don't think poorly of me, because of it. Please."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think poorly of you, Harry. But I'm worried about you, and I can't let you practice the dark arts! You could hurt yourself, or someone else. It's wrong, and it's not safe."

"Hermione..."

"And if I catch you doing it, I'll have to tell a teacher."

A very sad look came over Harry's face, but beside him, Theo bristled.

"No you won't, you filthy little mu-!"

Harry's hand shot over to squeeze Theo's arm in warning, silencing the other boy.

"Alright, Hermione, I understand. Either way, we should head back now, it's getting late," he said, eager to escape that particular conversation.

Eager to avoid detention, Hermione had, thankfully, agreed.

Once Harry and Theo had parted ways with her, Theo spoke up.

"They're muggles, aren't they? The family you live with, that you never want to talk about."

Harry nodded slowly, risking a glance at his friend..

A troubled look came over Theo's face. "My dad used to tell me about the terrible things muggles do to witches and wizards. He told me about how cruelly magical children are treated in muggle orphanages. He never did tell me how he knew all that, so I figured he was just trying to scare me."

Harry looked away.

"But he wasn't, was he? These _muggles_ of yours, they don't treat you well, do they?"

"They hate me," replied Harry simply.

Theo scowled. "You shouldn't have to live with people who hate you."

Harry shrugged. "It's better than an orphanage, I think. I have my own bedroom, and a bed."

Theo sent him a withering stare. "That's not saying much, Harry."

"It's really not so bad. I usually get to eat three meals, and if I'm tired or want to be alone, I can just do something that will get me locked away, because being locked away means I don't have to do any chores. "

"You get _locked away_?"

Harry didn't know why Theo sounded so surprised. Tom got locked away too, when he was young, so Harry knew it wasn't all that unusual. What did people call it - a time-out? Though...the Notts were purebloods, and he'd gathered that pureblood children tended to have more in common with Dudley than with him. Now that he thought of it, Theo was probably one of those kids never got hit by their parents, and got to eat whenever he wanted without doing chores first. Yes, Theo probably would not understand at all.

"I really don't mind it...I used to be scared of them, but now...they're scared of me. And if I really need something, they'll do what I want them to."

"Then why don't you make them give you more food!"

Harry flinched a bit. He wasn't _that_ thin."I can't ask for too much, or they'll send me to an orphanage. It's simple strategic thinking, really. After all, you can only use a threat so many times before it become idle," he added on, quoting Tom.

Theo shook his head. "That's messed up."

Harry scowled at him. Honestly, kids can be so naive. "That's life."

The two boys fell silent for a few minutes.

"Say," Theo said. "You mentioned threats. You said they're scared of you, but you used to be scared of them. What changed? How'd you manage it?"

Theo looked almost hopeful at the prospect, and though he didn't understand why his friend seemed so excited at the idea, he was pleased to be an encouragement, and a small smile crept onto his face.

"Well, magic."

"Magic?"

"When I was eight, I started learning to do things, you know? Like making things blow up, or disappear, or catch on fire."

Theo's eyes were wide.

"Didn't you do stuff like that?"

"Not on purpose, Harry."

"...oh. Well, anyway, I learnt all sorts of things, and then showed them, the muggles, and then they became scared of me."

Theo looked rather baffled, at this point. "You mean you can do magic without a wand?"

Harry nodded.

"Then what happened with Malfoy...that wasn't an accident?"

"Well, _that_ was. But I can do other things just fine."

Theo's eyes glinted, and he was smiling now. "Wicked! What else can you do?"

"Well, I can make it windy sometimes, and I can make cups explode...anything glass, really. I can light candles, and unlock doors, make it so people don't notice me, and..."

"And?" Theo said eagerly.

"Sometimes, I can make muggles do what I want. Like...once, I thought really hard about it, and I made my cousin stare at the wall for 10 minutes, and then walk in a circle three times."

"That's brilliant, Harry!"

"I know, right? My Aunt and Uncle thought he'd lost his marbles...but then they figured out it was me, and I got locked in my room for a week."

"...well, that's not brilliant, but the rest is."

"It is?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.

"Of course! Though, I wouldn't advertise that last one."

Harry tilted his head to the side. "Why's that?"

"Well, it sounds kind of...dark, you know."

Harry nodded slowly, recalling how concerned he was the first time Tom coaxed him into doing it. "I suppose that makes sense."

"Anyway," Theo said, "You must really be a genius. I've never heard of anyone doing that sort of thing. You must be really powerful!"

Harry smiled bashfully. "You think so?"

"Oh, for sure."

"Thanks!" Harry chirped, soaking up the compliments, "But...don't tell anyone, ok?"

"What? Why?"

"Well, too much attention isn't always a good thing, right?"

Theo grinned at him. "It will be our little secret, then."

Harry gave him a half smile. "Ok."

* * *

" _Expelliarmus!"_

" _Reducto!"_

" _Protego!"_

" _Bombarda!"_

" _Reducto!"_

" _Protego!"_

Harry's reductor curse was so strong that it threw Theo backwards, allowing Harry to finish the duel with _"Expelliarmus!"_

He grinned as Theo groaned. "You lasted more than three minutes this time!"

Theo scowled at him. "Yay me."

It was May, and Harry and Theo had been dueling each other twice a week for the last four months. It was less fun now, because Theo had figured out that he was going easy on him, and had insisted he didn't; so what were once 10 minute duels full of flashing lights, running, dodging, sneaking around, and hiding, were now condensed to under 5 minutes, much to Harry's disappointment. He still dodged a bit more than he had to, but he wasn't about to tell Theo that.

Harry found that he enjoyed dueling more than perhaps anything else he'd ever done in his life. It was the perfect balance between school and Quidditch – it was both intellectually and physically stimulating. Theo quite enjoyed it as well, and Harry thought their frequent dueling sessions had allowed them to bond a great deal and strengthen their friendship; Harry had never experienced anything quite like collapsing on the floor with Theo after a long series of duels, laughing at each other as they tried to catch their breath.

Hermione had joined them a few times, but she wasn't quite as keen on getting herself "blown up", as she put it. It was true; Harry and Theo spent most of their time hurling blasting hexes and reductor curses at each other (because, to be honest, they hadn't really mastered anything that didn't involve blowing things up...Tom said that it said a lot about their personalities), much to Hermione's undisguised annoyance.

After Hermione had let them teach her a couple of curses, Theo had warmed up to her a little more, and had even started addressing her directly by her surname, and more than that, rather amiably. Harry was pretty sure that it was because the other boy was amused by the fact that they were technically teaching Hermione the dark arts without her realizing it. She took to it quickly and easily, though, and Harry thought it was a shame that she was so against learning dark magic, because she seemed to have a talent for it. The fact that she could keep up at all with Harry (who literally had the Dark Lord in his head) and Theo (who came from a family of dark magic practitioners) said a lot.

Harry felt a bit bad about not making it clear that the spells she was learning from them were technically dark magic, but he didn't want to scare her off. The fact was that most useful offensive magic was technically dark arts, and Harry wanted Hermione to be able to protect herself. It was likely that being friends with him would expose her to a lot of wizards and witches who disliked muggleborns, and who might even want to hurt her...and the best way to protect her was to teach her how to protect herself. He was sure she'd understand one day, she just needed time, and if lying to her a bit would help keep her safe, he'd do so gladly.

Harry, Theo, and Hermione also met once a week to practice occlumency. This is where Hermione's skills really showed, because she took to the mind arts very quickly – she mastered meditation within a month (it had taken Harry almost half a year to learn to meditate, so he was very impressed with Hermione's progress), and she was exceptional at organizing her thoughts. Even Tom was impressed with her (not that he said so or anything, but Harry could tell). And that was really saying something.

Thus far, Tom was very pleased with the arrangements Harry had made to supplement his education at Hogwarts, and had been very eager to have Harry learn legillimency. Tom believed legillimency to be the "highest form of torture", an evaluation which made Harry feel very uncomfortable, but he couldn't deny the usefulness of the subject. He'd started practicing on Hermione and Theo in April – he was rather shocked that they let him, to be honest. Apparently they both had a lot of faith in his benevolent nature, which made him really happy...but at the same time somewhat worried about their sanity. Sure, Harry was a very nice person, but nice people do terrible things all the time - like Tom.

All he really did was scan their surface thoughts – legilimency was really hard, so he wasn't able to do much else, and they knew that. Still, he didn't want them to only have his word to go on, so he took a proactive role in putting precautions in place to preserve his friends' privacy. In other words, he'd mentally agonized over it for weeks. Tom said he was being an idiot, but he couldn't bring himself to invade the privacy of his friends...apparently they trusted him more than he trusted himself.

In the end, Tom had mentioned in passing that he could swear a mild blood oath; intrigued by the concept, Harry had looked up a book in the restricted section on the complex subject of magical oaths. After a week of research he swore a blood oath to Hermione and Theo that he wouldn't go seeking out any of their memories. The deal was, should he break his oath, he'd be subjected to pain a little milder than the cruciatus curse while in the process of breaking their agreement. What they didn't know, of course, was that over the past three years, he'd built up quite the pain tolerance, and Tom seemed very certain that he'd hold up better under the curse than most.

Hermione had been very uncomfortable with the whole oath thing - it was pretty dark magic, after all - but Harry had promised her that it wasn't anything unusual (a lie), that many more commonly used oaths had more serious permanent consequences (the truth), and that it wasn't really that dark at all (a lie).

Theo hadn't argued at all. He was very adamant that he didn't want Harry looking at his memories, and Harry completely empathized with him on that point.

Suffice it to say, Tom was not pleased with him. The Dark Lord had insisted on reading over the chapter he got his oath from about 10 times, memorizing each clause and loophole. Harry would later come to understand why Tom was concerned, and why it was, in fact, very foolish to take such an oath without fully understanding the magic behind it.

Anyway, after finding the magical oaths book, Harry had started looking more into the concept of a magical promises and contracts. It wasn't that he didn't trust Hermione and Theo, but the more he thought about it, the more he understood Tom's concerns about their little study club. It really would be for the best if he could find a way to make sure they wouldn't go talking to the wrong people about the wrong things. Tom claimed that the magical basis for his Dark Mark had the potential to do something similar to what Harry was looking for, but Harry wasn't about to start insisting that his friends get skulls tattooed on their arms. Indeed, Harry thought it was rather demeaning to brand people as proof of their loyalty...but knowing Tom, that was his intention when he created the _Morsmordre_ spell.

Besides that, Harry found the concept of magical oaths incredibly fascinating, and was eager to learn as much as he could on the subject. Every question he had about intention and meaning in magic was answered by that obscure branch of spell crafting - because that's exactly what swearing an oath was. It was the art of following a template to craft a unique spell that would tie the magic of the secret-sharer and the secret-keeper together. It was an extraordinarily rich subject, and Harry was surprised at how broad it really was. He'd begun spending every free moment he had researching the topic. He might have been a touch obsessed. Just a bit. Not much. Just a bit.

Other than Harry, Theo, and Hermione's thus far unnamed study club and Harry's own research, the term had passed quickly and easily and without event. Thankfully, he hadn't gotten nearly killed in any Quidditch games following the one in November, much to his and Tom's relief. He figured that now that the other professors were aware that someone was trying to hurt him, Quirrell would find it too risky to try anything else. Professor Snape had even insisted on refereeing the Quidditch game following his near-death experience, which Harry found incredibly touching. He'd thanked Professor Snape for his concern, after the game, but the potions professor had just glared at him and swept away briskly, black robes billowing behind him.

Figures.

After that, he'd been left to win Quidditch games in peace. And win he did. Indeed, Harry was now quite well liked in his house. Between the his skill at catching the snitch and the points he won in class, he had become a great asset to Slytherin House, as far as winning points went. People would actually go out of their way to greet him now, and before games everyone he crossed paths with wished him luck.

It so turned out that when all was said and done, Harry's rather agreeable nature had a way of making people forget that he was, in fact, the Boy Who Lived, and that he actually had, beneath his politeness and friendliness, a violent temper.

It was on account of this violent temper that the only person who hadn't warmed up to him at all was Draco Malfoy.

On the bright side, Malfoy wasn't trying to hex him anymore. On the not so bright side, Malfoy had gone from being insulted by him, to being terrified by him, to being angry and resentful toward him, and finally to completely and utterly ignoring him, over the course of the short time they'd known each other. By the time May rolled around, the blonde boy refused to look at him, let alone speak to him.

Harry managed to catch his eye in late April, but that was it.

Other than that special event, nothing had really happened at all until Hermione and Ron pulled him aside on one fine May afternoon.

"A vampire?" Harry asked incredulously.

Hermione nodded rapidly. "We saw it, in the Forbidden Forest - "

"Wait, why were you in the Forbidden Forest?"

"Detention -"

"Wait, _you_ were in detention?" Harry asked, utter disbelief making itself known in his voice. "How did that happen?"

Hermione scowled.

"Hagrid had a baby dragon we needed to smuggle out of the castle," Ron replied happily.

Harry nodded slowly. "Ok, yes, that makes perfect sense. Why didn't I think of that? Please go on."

Hermione huffed. "Well it was all cloaked in black so we couldn't see much - but it was feeding on blood!"

Harry grew alarmed at that. "Whose blood?"

"It was a unicorn!"

Harry frowned. "A...unicorn...?"

Hermione's eyes were wide as she nodded. "I had been under the impression that vampires only feed off of humans, but Ron said that they can feed off animals too! Can you believe it? The one killing Hagrid's unicorns is a vampire!"

Suffice it to say, Harry had been left very puzzled.

Luckily, Tom was able to shed some light on the whole thing later on.

"Unicorn blood is a unique elixir that can bring one back from the brink of death."

"That's handy. What's the catch?"

Tom chuckled. "It is said that those who drink the blood of a unicorn are cursed to live a half-life."

Harry frowned. "Like a particle's half life?"

"No."

"Then, what is it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, it sounds bad."

"It does. The wraith your friends caught sight of in the Forbidden Forest must have been very desperate."

"Do you think that maybe it was...Voldemort 1.0?"

Tom quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose it sounds like something I would do. I've had a history of ignoring warning labels, so to speak. In retrospect, that probably wasn't wise."

Harry refrained from commenting.

"I wouldn't have thought that my master soul would be so close to the castle, though. It is...concerning."

"Do you think Professor Quirrell will make his move soon?"

"That is likely."

"What do we do in the meantime?"

"What we have been doing – waiting for him to make his move."

"And then we make ours."

"Exactly."

* * *

June brought with it exams. As it turned out, Hermione _loved_ exams, but he and Theo didn't at all share her enthusiasm.

The main issue for Harry was the studying. He didn't really see the point in reviewing the material he had already learned, and would much rather focus on getting ahead in his studies. Nevertheless, Hermione insisted that he study with her, as did Theo, in fact. The were both rather worried in the weeks leading up to their exams.

Despite Hermione's constant fretting and ranting, he'd managed to stay fairly relaxed through it all. He knew he passed all his exams – in fact, he'd probably gotten top marks; he imagined that if he didn't, Tom would make his opinion about the matter known. But again, he was so used to the pain Tom frequently unleashed on him that he wasn't particularly upset at the prospect of a few hours of headaches. Tom tended to get bored quickly, after all.

It was the night after their last exam that Harry woke in the middle of the night, feeling a strange pulling sensation in his chest.

He immediately sat up in his bed, very confused. It wasn't a painful sensation, but it was unpleasant, and very annoying.

 _The wards..._

Harry snapped to attention. This was it. It was time.

Finally, off to make yet another new friend.

* * *

We're almost at the end...of year one, at least. 6 more to go...Jesus, this is going to be long. It'll definitely be over 200,000 words. Yikes.

Thank you for reading everyone, and don't forget to let me know what you think!


	21. Off to See the Wizard

**Disclaimer:** I own very little. Enough said.

 **AN:** I've made the decision to not narrate my version of the 'Through the Trap Door' chapter. Why? Well, you've probably all read it before, many, many times, and quite frankly, I tried writing it, and it was rather dull - I had no plans to change much. So I decided to get to the good stuff right away. Saves everyone's time, and curbs my violently growing word count.

* * *

 **Chapter 21: Off to See the Wizard**

This was it. No turning back now.

He'd just made it through the last obstacle - a riddle he believed to be crafted by none other than Professor Severus Snape - and he was on his own now. He'd needed Tom to get past the giant chess set for him (seeing as he didn't know how to play chess), and between the wards and the high-stakes chess game, the Dark Lord was so spent that Harry could barely feel him in the back of his mind.

But it was alright. Harry knew what he needed to do. He even had a mental checklist:

1\. Subtly discern Professor Quirrell's loyalties. Subtly. Craftily. That was important.

2\. Escape if he and Tom had been mistaken, or if someone else showed up. To that end, he kept his invisibility cloak handy.

3\. Kindle a brand new friendship if they weren't in any danger and, as they thought, Professor Quirrell was 'friend material', so to speak.

Easy. Simple. He could do this.

"Here I come, Professor Quirrell," he muttered as he drained the little bottle in his hand in one gulp. The effect was immediate - cold water rushed over his skin and ice crept through his veins, causing him to shiver uneasily. Convinced that the potion had done its job, he put the bottle down and stepped forward into the fire before him.

Black flames licked at his skin and grabbed at his clothes, but sure enough, he couldn't feel them; they were little more than an illusion - a frightening one; the few moments when he could see nothing but burning blackness around him were disconcerting to say the least – and a moment later he was on the other side, in the final chamber. And sure enough, Quirinius Quirrell was standing right there in front of him, staring into a very familiar mirror.

It was that same mirror he'd seen in the abandoned classroom, those months ago – that frightening object cursed with some strange spell designed to remind him of things he did not want to remember. And yet...somehow, its presence was much different - this time, it didn't seem as ominous.

What the mirror was doing there, he didn't know, but that's not what he was there for. He was supposed to make a friend.

"Good evening, Professor Quirrell," he said softly with a slight smile.

The man spun around, shock crossing his face – shock, not fear - but then he smiled back at him. The usually nervous man's face wasn't twitching at all – it was still, firm, and almost eerily serene. "Potter. What a pleasant surprise."

Harry nodded a bit, stepping forward tentatively. Apparently he was a pleasant surprise. So far so good.

"You don't seem surprised to see me here," Professor Quirrell commented, one eyebrow raised.

Harry shook his head. "That's because I'm not. You weren't as subtle as you should have been, professor – you know, it wasn't very smart to let a troll in as a distraction when the obstacle you chose to hide the Philosopher's Stone was a troll as well," he commented mildly, assuming that the troll in the other room had been the Defence of the Dark Arts professor's doing. Given the variation in the obstacles he'd overcome to reach the final chamber, he'd deduced that several professors – Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape to be precise – had had a hand in protecting the Stone...it seemed only reasonable that one had also been the work of the Defence against the Dark Arts professor as well.

"So you knew about the troll, did you?"

"I figured it out a while ago. It was a bit of an obvious distraction."

Harry was hoping he didn't offend his potential new friend, so he was relieved when Professor Quirrell chuckled. "You really are a quick one, aren't you, Potter? I'm surprised you didn't end up in Ravenclaw – my old house, you know."

Harry nodded, pleased by the compliment. "The hat certainly thought about it." He frowned a bit. "You don't seem surprised to see me here either."

"I knew someone would try to stop me," Professor Quirrell said, "Of course I'm not surprised that it's the _Boy Who Lived._ You may be a Slytherin, Potter, but heroism is in your blood. Which reminds me..."

He snapped his fingers, causing ropes to materialize around Harry, hugging him tightly.

"I can't have you interfering."

Harry grimaced. "You know, I'm not here to stop you. I was just curious. I wanted to talk to you."

The Professor barked out a laugh. "You know, Potter, for a Slytherin, you're a rather pathetic liar."

Harry frowned. "That's because I'm not lying. I really did just come to talk to you. If I wanted to stop you, I would have gone to a teacher long ago; I told you, I figured all this out a while back."

Professor Quirrell grinned at him, clearly amused by his words. "Is that so? I admit, I'm surprised you would see past my facade. I would have thought that no one would suspect p-p-poor st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell. I am curious, though, when exactly did you know? Was it when I tried to kill you?"

The man's smile sharpened, and Harry got the impression that his professor was trying to intimidate him with this revelation (which wasn't really a revelation, seeing as Harry already knew all this). It wasn't working.

"Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you; another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom, no doubt. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a counter-curse, trying to save you," the man said grandly.

"Ah, so it _was_ him with the counter-curse," Harry said thoughtfully.

"You knew about the Quidditch game, too?" Professor Quirrell looked surprised. "So you knew about all of it. Really though, since when? When did you know?"

Harry thought about it. When _had_ Professor Quirrell's intentions become evident? When had he and Tom truly suspected the man? Well, it was pretty much from the beginning, wasn't it? "The Quidditch game was when it really clicked, I suppose...but really, I've suspected something was wrong since the first day of classes, sir. Why else would my scar hurt in your class but in no one else's?"

The professor nodded. "Indeed, indeed. Truly, I'm surprised no one else caught on. It really was suspicious, wasn't it?"

"Maybe they did catch on," Harry said, suddenly aware of the fact that the more time he spent chatting with his Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, the more likely it was that they'd get caught.

The professor laughed at his words, though. "Perhaps, Potter, perhaps. But they're not here now, are they?" He scowled. "Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror."

The man glared at the mirror. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this...but he's in London...I'll be far away by the time he gets back..."

Oh, so _that's_ why he chose tonight...that's why he wasn't worried about time. Makes sense.

"So," Harry began, not wanting the Professor to forget about his presence, "If Professor Snape was muttering the counter-curse, did he know about all this as well?" This would be a good time to sort out Professor Snape's allegiances. After all, Professor Snape not wanting him dead didn't guarantee his allegiance to either side.

"Yes," Professor Quirrell said idly, walking around the Mirror to look at the back. "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got. He suspected me all along...tried to frighten me -"

Ah, so Professor Snape was trying to thwart him. Good to know. Apparently Tom was right in referring to the man as a traitor then.

"- as though he could, when I had the Dark Lord on my side..."

Harry didn't react to that, but was internally pleased. He already knew who Professor Quirrell was working for, but now proof was unfolding right in front of him, and soon he could proceed with his friend-making quest. Tom would be relieved.

Professor Quirrell came back out from behind the Mirror and stared hungrily into it. "I see the Stone...I'm presenting it to my master...but where is it?"

"Your master...is Lord Voldemort?" Harry tried to confirm.

He watched Professor Quirrell flinch at the name.

"Is he the one who asked you to steal the Stone?" Harry asked, trying not to sound too pushy.

Professor Quirrell stared at him for a long moment. "You know about that too?"

Harry nodded. "Like I said, it was the pain in my scar that gave you away. It didn't really leave much to the imagination."

The professor narrowed his eyes at him.

"Lord Voldemort," Harry said, feeling some sort of amused satisfaction when Professor Quirrell flinched again. "Where is he now?"

The professor froze, and Harry watched his eye glaze over slightly, growing distant.

"He is with me wherever I go," the man said quietly, the thin, quivering quality of his voice sending shivers down Harry's spine – there was something very eerie about those words, though he didn't know what it was. "I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it..."

Then he was _definitely_ working for Voldemort 1.0.

"Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Professor Quirrell's voice had grown hoarse and strained, and he shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts -"

Harry's eyebrows went up. He'd tried to rob Gringotts? That was awfully...brave. Apparently Professor Quirrell had some Gryffindor in him.

"- he was most displeased. He punished me...decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me..." the professor's voice trailed away.

Harry tilted his head to the side. Apparently, Voldemort 1.0 had little tolerance for mistakes, much like Tom. Still, something seemed...off...about Professor Quirrell's statement. There was something implicitly...horrible, terrifying about the Voldemort he spoke of – something in his voice made Harry's blood run cold.

"I'm very sorry you had to go through that sir..."

The man scoffed.

"...but if you wouldn't mind elaborating," Harry said cautiously, "I would appreciate it."

"Enough, Potter! You've distracted me enough!"

Harry grimaced. "I'm sorry if it came off like that, sir, but I need to -"

Professor Quirrell ignored him, and swore under his breath. "I don't understand … is the Stone inside the Mirror? Should I break it?"

Harry really had no idea at this point – where the Stone was, how to get it – he didn't care, either. Something was off about this whole thing, and he needed to get to the bottom of it before he made his move. "Pro -"

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!" the man exclaimed desperately into thin air.

And much to Harry's surprise, the thin air answered.

"Use the boy...Use the boy..." The voice was cold and high; thin, weak, and papery...yet terrifying, in a way.

Professor Quirrell rounded on Harry, eyes narrow and critical. "Yes - Potter - come here." He clapped his hands once and the ropes binding Harry fell off.

Harry slowly walked toward him, his movements cautious. He didn't understand what was going on. What was that voice? There wasn't anyone else there...was there?

"Come here," Professor Quirrell repeated. "Look in the Mirror and tell me what you see."

"Professor, I need to talk to you. It's about -"

"Shut up, Potter, and do as I say."

Harry sighed. Perhaps Quirrell would be more willing to talk after he got the Stone. So Harry steeled himself, closed his eyes, stepped in front of the Mirror, and opened them again, feeling more than a little apprehensive about what he was about to see. But instead of the frightening vision he'd witnessed back in December, he saw himself in the mirror this time, him and his green eyes – a proper reflection, pale and uneasy, no trace of Tom or anyone else present. In fact, this was the first time in a very, very long time that he could actually recall seeing _himself_ in a mirror, not just his face as it was worn by his best friend. The serenity of being able to look at just himself, and no one else, pulled him in, and for a moment, he forgot where he was.

But when that moment passed, the reflection smiled at him. For a second, Harry thought it might be Tom after all, but then it put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a shimmering crimson stone. Then it winked and put the Stone back in its pocket – and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his actual pocket.

He froze, and did his best to remain still and silent. What incredible magic! What _was_ that? Somehow, the mirror had acknowledged his presence, and manifested something in reality that had rested only in a false reflection a moment earlier. What sort of magic was that? Was it looking inside him? Somewhere in his thoughts and memories the same way it had done months prior? Or was it more like the incredible magic of the Room of Requirement, responding to some some need, some active desire his mind had created then and there?

"Well?" Quirrell said impatiently with a scowl, oblivious to Harry's awe at the magical contraption in front of them. "What do you see?"

Harry was about to triumphantly announce he had the Stone, when he froze.

Wait.

Something wasn't right, here. Something felt wrong. He could feel it in the air around him, he could hear it Quirrell's voice. What had that strange voice been? Something was very wrong with this whole thing – he could feel it deep in his chest, the unease festering like a rampant infection – but he didn't know what it was. They were alone, and yet they weren't. Someone was here with them...someone who had Harry's hair standing on end. He steeled himself – no, he wouldn't give Quirrell the Stone until he knew for sure who else was there with him.

Tom had urged caution, so cautious he would be.

"Christmas...a tree and presents, and my..." here, Harry forced himself to tear up a bit "...my parents."

Meanwhile, the professor cursed again. "Get out of the way," he said, pushing Harry aside.

Harry nearly sighed with relief, but then he heard that voice again.

"He lies...he lies..."

Where _was_ that coming from?

Meanwhile, Professor Quirrell was starting to get very anxious, and had begun fidgeting and twitching slightly. "Potter! Get back here! Tell me the truth! What did you see?"

Harry frowned. "I'll tell you, but I want to know where that voice is coming from, first."

The professor scowled, and was about to yell at him again when the voice made itself known once again.

"Let me speak to him...face to face..."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I am strong enough...for this..."

Why did Professor Quirrell keep calling it Master? Voldemort wasn't actually with them, right? Or had he been speaking literally when...

With undisguised curiosity, he watched as Professor Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. Anxiety and excitement were growing inside him, and his heart was ready to leap out of his chest when his professor finished, and began turning slowly on the spot. And then a moment later he saw it - where there should have been a back to the man's head, there was a face, the most ghastly and horrifying face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake's. It wasn't the face of a man; it was the hideous visage of a monster. No...that...it...was it really...?

"Lord Voldemort?" Harry tried shakily.

"Harry Potter..." Voldemort whispered, and suddenly Harry felt fear. Why was he afraid? This was Tom, not his Tom, but still Tom. He shouldn't feel afraid. This person was going to be his friend, right? They were going to have a nice long talk and figure things out – they'd work together to...wait...

What _was_ he supposed to do once he'd introduced himself? Tom said they needed to ally themselves with his master soul, but he'd never made it clear to what end. Harry had just always figured that Voldemort 1.0 would pick things up from there, and together they could come to a mutual agreement on what would be best for everyone, after the pleasantries of friend-making were over and done with. But now he wasn't so sure. The prospect of pleasantries and agreements didn't seem to match up well with present company.

Suddenly, Harry felt very uneasy, very lost. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

"See what I have become?" Voldemort continued, "Mere shadow and vapour... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds ...unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own...now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

So he knew. He shouldn't be surprised. But still he hesitated.

"Don't be a fool," Voldemort snarled suddenly, clearly sensing Harry's hesitation. "Better save your own life and join me..."

Harry frowned, not too keen on the man's argument. It seemed so...crude for Tom. So presumptuous and simple. Tom was a selfish sort, but he knew not everyone was like that – he knew there were people who valued ideas, objects, and other people over their own lives. He knew people were complicated. Tom was more nuanced than this. More clever. Or, he should have been.

"...or you'll meet the same end as your parents; they died begging me for mercy."

Harry bristled. What was going on? Tom would never say something like that. He said his parents fought bravely; they _did_ fight bravely. They fought so that Harry could live, so that he could have a life beyond the death sentence Voldemort marked him with.

He grit his teeth. "You can't expect me to give you the stone if you lie to me like that."

Voldemort looked at him with some mixture of amusement, irritation, and slowly simmering fury. "You accuse me of lying, boy?"

There was something in Voldemort's voice that sounded horribly like something Uncle Vernon would say when he was in for a beating.

Harry drew back and scowled, feeling his magic furiously twisting like an angry tempest around him. There was that feeling again in his chest, smouldering and simmering, and nearing boiling point, ready to explode. "Yes, I do! My parents fought bravely so that I could live. They died honourably _for me!"_

"They died for nothing," Voldemort hissed with a vicious, mocking grin, making Harry feel very small, very helpless; and that just made him angrier. "They died because they were fools who stepped in my way, and they regretted it in the end, as they begged, and pled -"

Harry furiously wiped away the angry tears running down his cheeks with a clenched fist. "No! They died because _you_ were so cowardly that you had to attack a _baby_. You're the one who failed; you're the one who fell! _You're_ the one begging for life, like some kind of parasite -"

He froze, his blood running from boiling to freezing point in an instant.

The face of Voldemort snarled at him, and he cried out furiously, "SEIZE HIM!"

"Wait, wait," Harry tried to say, feeling suddenly horrified with himself, "I didn't mean that -"

Harry felt Quirrell's hand close on his wrist. At once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry's scar; his head felt as though it was about to split in two, much like when Tom returned after an expedition with the injicio potion; he let out a startled scream, instinct taking over as he struggled with all his might, and to his relief, Quirrell let go of him.

The pain in his head lessened as Quirrell pulled away, and he looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone and saw him hunched over in pain, looking at his fingers – they were blistering with angry, festering boils right before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" Voldemort shrieked out once more and without a second thought Quirrell blindly lunged at him again, knocking Harry clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands grasping around Harry's neck.

At this point, Harry's scar was almost blinding him with pain, but he could hear Quirrell howling in agony as well.

"Master, I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!"

Once again, Quirrell withdrew, and as the pain subsided only slightly, Harry saw his professor staring, bewildered, at his own palms – Harry could see they were covered in raw, bleeding burns.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" Voldemort cried out furiously.

Quirrell at once drew his wand, the word _"Avada -_ " on his lips, and Harry panicked. No, no, no, he couldn't die here. He still had so much to do. He wasn't going to die - he couldn't die, not yet. He wasn't going to die...he wasn't going to die...

Completely overtaken by desperation and fear, he lunged forward and and grabbed Quirrell's face.

"AAAARGH!"

Not daring to let go, he hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and thrashed and tried to throw Harry off, but he wouldn't let go; he couldn't. He wasn't going to die...he wasn't going to die...

The pain in Harry's head was building...he couldn't see, he could barely feel anything besides the burning pain in his head...he could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!", but soon even those died away...

And then everything went dark.

* * *

And that's a wrap! Despite Harry's efforts, fate won this time, and he got stuck with the same outcome as canon. Don't worry, it won't happen again next year.

For the people who are wondering: Harry was able to get the Stone out of the mirror because he didn't want to use the Stone, and didn't really want Voldemort to use the stone; he just wanted Quirrell to talk to him. He's a pretty straight forward person...at this point...before I really start messing with him...

Please do leave a review to let me know you were here! I want to know what you think :)


	22. All's Well that Ends Well

**Disclaimer:** I wish I owned this. I would be so happy if I did.

 **AN:** I just want to say how grateful I am for my wonderful readers. You guys give me so much positive feedback, and it does wonders for my ego. Seriously, if I'm feeling down about myself, I just have to click on the link to my reviews, and bam! instant confidence boost. You're all awesome, and make me very happy. I hope I can continue to reciprocate.

* * *

 **Chapter 22: All's Well that Ends Well**

When Harry opened his eyes, he was in what looked like the Room of Requirement, but not the place where everything is hidden; no, it was what Harry had taken to calling his Room of Hot Chocolate, the little room with the couch and the fire and the enormous mug of hot chocolate that was, unfortunately, eternally empty. But he was not alone; seated on the couch was a tall, imposing figure, white-skinned and robed in black.

Wait, was that...?

Harry gasped. "Tom..."

The man didn't turn around. "Come, Harry, sit."

Harry froze. "Tom, I'm so, so, sorry. I knew I shouldn't have said that, it's just – he didn't give me time to correct myself and I couldn't apologize and I -"

"Harry, sit."

Timidly, Harry walked around to the couch, and cautiously sat down beside the terrifying figure of Lord Voldemort. Like his counterpart, his face was a deathly white, his skin radiating a coldness that nearly made Harry shiver. What had once been the handsome face of the Hogwarts prefect, Tom Riddle, was replaced by the visage of a serpentine monster who barely appeared to be human at all.

"I would think this is not how you imagined me, all these years," said Lord Voldemort, or rather, Tom, because this _was_ his Tom, he could tell.

Harry shook his head. "You look like a a dead turtle." He slapped a hand over his mouth.

Tom smirked. "Watch your mouth Harry, or we shall test whether I can use the cruciatus curse in here." He twirled his wand in his hand.

Harry gaped at him. Yes, this was definitely his Tom. Then he frowned and looked around. "Are we in the Room of Requirement?"

"No. We are, in fact, in a cozy little corner of your mind. To be precise, we are visiting your _memory_ of the Room of Requirement."

Harry nodded. That made more sense.

"Is it...always like this, in here, for you?"

"You mean the luxury of dwelling in your memories? When you are awake I experience the world just as you do, but when you sleep...when I have strength enough I can construct for myself semblances of what I experience through you...when not, it is merely...black."

"That sounds horrible."

"Such is the fate of all our fellow horcruxes, I'm afraid. I suppose I should be pleased that I am not one of the unfortunate soul slivers who dwell in objects of paper or gold."

"Do you think...the others are aware of what they are, too?"

"It is surely possible, that they are conscious. Truth be told, I'd never cared to find out."

"It must be awful...being a conscious piece of someone's soul, but never being able to move, or talk, or see, or hear."

"It would be a...cruel fate."

"How could you do that to your own soul? Just leave them, stuck forever to lifeless objects and blindness and silence..."

"Thus is the price of immortality, Harry."

Harry frowned, troubled. "How can you say that? This is your soul."

"My soul to do with as I please," Tom said sharply.

"I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

"That it is not."

"But...I don't get it. Your soul pieces, they're a part of you, right? They're you, in a way."

"That is correct."

"But...then...how...you're so...different from him. How can you be so different?"

Tom looked at him closely, red eyes flickering in the firelight. "It would appear that the years have not been kind to my master soul. It was foolish of you to...speak so rashly, but I would not have expected myself to react so...strongly to the words of an angry child."

Harry nodded slowly. "I could feel something, Tom, something very wrong. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should have done better, I should have -"

Tom held up his hand. "What's done is done, Harry. And perhaps it is for the best."

Harry froze. "...what?"

"You have good instincts, Harry."

"...I do?"

"The Lord Voldemort you encountered would have been of little use to us, at this point. It would appear that I...miscalculated."

"Miscalculated what?"

"I had hoped we could converse with my master soul and piece together a plan, a plan that would begin with restoring his body."

Harry blanched. "This plan...it didn't involve possessing me, did it?"

"With the massive amount of corrosive light magic running through your veins, I believe that would be unfeasible, in the long run."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "He didn't really seem up to talking, though."

"And therein lies my miscalculation."

"It does?"

"I had thought a partnership was in order, that he, the master soul, and we, the horcrux with a life of its own, would work together to achieve greatness beyond what I had accomplished in my last life."

"And...you don't think that will work anymore?"

"The Lord Voldemort you encountered was, as you said, desperate. He would not have allied himself with us. He would have locked us in a box and thrown away the key."

Harry went white. "Y-you really think so?"

"I know myself well. He would have prioritized your physical safety above all else, neglecting you in your descent into madness, and in the end we would both waste away to a mindless shell."

Harry nodded shakily. "But...why would he do something like that?"

"You angered him, Harry. You did not conform to his wishes or submit to his control."

"Well, yes, but..."

"I am a cruel, impatient man, Harry. I value power, and control, and I am quick to anger and unforgiving."

"I know," Harry blurted out.

Thankfully, Tom just chuckled. "What have I told you about the truth, Harry?"

Harry grimaced.

"Anger has always been the one sentiment I have understood, and my rage has ever been my only connection, I believe, to humanity. But it would appear that since taking up residence in your body, it has diminished greatly."

Harry gaped at him. Tom's temper was _diminished_? What on earth was he like _before_?

"Five years lying dormant in your body and five more awake and trapped there seem to have...tempered my soul."

"...tempered?"

"Patience has become a necessity for me, and my faith in you is the only tool I have at my disposal. And I am nothing if not adaptable. As is befitting of Salazar Slytherin's heir."

Harry grinned, despite himself. "So you _do_ trust me!"

"Only marginally."

Harry pouted.

"Do not sulk, it's undignified. As I was saying before your childish interruption, I have grown...patience and tolerant -" he said the words with some disgust evident in his voice "-and in this time of growing, I forgot..."

"Forgot what?"

"Toward the end of the last war, I had become caught up in the destruction and madness of the war I was waging, and...fixated on insignificant details that should not have concerned me."

"Like the prophecy."

Tom nodded. "Like the prophecy. It would appear that while I have had time to reflect on this and...evolve, my master soul has not, and the years he has spent, as he said, as a mere vapour have done nothing to temper the tempestuous anger inside him. In fact, it may be just the opposite."

"I don't understand, though...if he's the master soul, shouldn't he be more stable than the rest of you?"

"I...would have thought so."

"I don't really think it's fair, then, that he gets to be the master soul and you're stuck in a horcrux."

Tom smiled wryly. "I have relished, over the years, in demonstrating for the wizarding world just how unfair life can be. I think it would be a bit petty to start complaining about my lot in life now."

"I still think you deserve to be the one with your own body, not him."

"Your faith in me is touching," Tom said wryly. "But I fear it is misplaced. I am a piece of a soul, and you are a horcrux...that is all."

"I don't like it."

"Nobody asked for your opinion."

"That's true. So...what now? I think I've made your master soul rather cross with me. He tried to kill me, after all. Perhaps if I started next time with, 'Hi, I'm Harry Potter, your accidental horcrux'..."

Tom smirked. "That would indeed be quite the conversation opener. However, I doubt it would do much good."

"Why not?"

"Worst case, he would not listen to you, and would kill you immediately because you had somehow learned his secret. Blinding rage tends to twist rationality into something much more vague and easily manipulated by sentiment and whim."

"And, er, the best case?"

"The box, lock, and key scenario."

Harry nodded slowly, grimacing. "So what do we do, Tom? I don't want to die. And I really don't want to be locked up either."

"I think that it would be...unwise to approach him again before he has a body to...stabilize him. Perhaps then we can persuade him to see reason."

"And if we can't?"

"Lord Voldemort's survival is insured by ours, and therefore our safety must be prioritized by any means necessary."

Harry nodded slowly. "That makes sense...but Tom..."

"Yes, Harry?"

"I really don't like him. I don't like him at all."

Tom stared at him with an unreadable look on his face. "It's time for you to wake up now, Harry."

Harry crossed his arms. _:I don't wanna go. It's nice and warm here. Can't I just sleep for a while_?:

Tom quirked an eyebrow. _:No, you lazy little snake, what do you think you've been doing for the last three days?:_

 _:Three days!:_

So that's why Tom was being so agreeable - he'd had three days to cool down.

 _:Indeed.:_

 _:Then what's a few more hours?:_

Tom quirked an eyebrow. _:You have an old man to appease. And don't ruin this as well, or else you won't sleep again for another week, that I promise you.:_

* * *

Something gold was glinting just above him - it took a moment for him to realize that it was a pair of glasses; glimmering gold and polished glass. How strange...they were just...floating there. Wait. He blinked again. Yes, they were floating in fluffy white clouds...no, that's not right. It was hair. Then suddenly he understood, as the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him.

"Good afternoon, Harry."

Having already been warned by Tom, Harry wasn't at all surprised to see the professor there. "Hello Professor Dumbledore. May I ask where I am?"

The old man laughed at the candidness of the question. "You, my boy, are in the hospital wing."

Harry frowned and looked around him. Sure enough, he was lying in a bed with white linen sheets...and next to him was a table piled high with what looked like half a sweet-shop and then some.

"Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Professor Dumbledore, beaming. "What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a lavatory seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."

"Oh, that's...a pity. How long have I been in here?" Harry asked curiously. It must have been a while, for all that...stuff to pile up.

"Three days."

Oh, right, Tom said something like that.

"Mr. Nott and Ms. Granger will be especially pleased to find you awake – they were both quite reluctant to leave your side. An interesting pair they made, sitting at your bedside together."

Harry smiled, but then frowned. "Sir, may I ask what happened to Professor Quirrell and the Philosopher's Stone?"

The elderly man sighed. "Professor Quirrell did not manage to take the Stone from you, if that is what you are asking. Had he have managed to escape, I would have been there to stop him, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say."

"I heard you were in London."

"Indeed, indeed. But no sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you. I admit, I feared I had been too late."

"But you _did_ manage to get the Stone."

"Oh, not the Stone, dear boy, you – your effort nearly killed you -"

Harry paled. Tom would have something to say about that later.

"- for one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Harry repeated. "After all that? What about Mr. Flamel?"

"Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted. "You _did_ do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat and agreed it's all for the best."

"But he'll die then, right?" Harry asked bluntly.

"Indeed my boy, indeed. But you shouldn't worry for him; I assure you that to Nicolas and his wife Perenelle, death really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure."

Harry smiled a bit. "You really think so, sir?"

Professor Dumbledore's blue eyes sparkled a bit. "Oh, I know so, Harry."

"But how would you know something like that?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, it's one of those things one you learn over the years..." the man said mysteriously.

"But Lord Voldemort didn't learn it, did he sir?"

"Indeed, my boy, indeed he did not."

"He's still alive, then?"

"Yes, that is correct, Harry. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share...as he is not truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time – and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."

Harry wanted to laugh, at that. If Voldemort 1.0 was anything like Voldemort 2.0, he wouldn't give up so easily. Somehow, he thought Professor Dumbledore would agree with this statement.

"I'm curious sir, why couldn't Professor Quirrell touch me?"

"Well Harry, how about this – I will answer your question, if you answer for me one of my own."

Harry nodded. "That seems fair. I've asked a lot of questions already. You want to know why I was down there in the first place, don't you sir?"

"Ah, Harry, you are just as intelligent as your professors say, it would seem. Indeed, I would like to know why it was that you followed Professor Quirrell to seek out the Stone. I dare say, being the intelligent young man you are, it would have occurred to you to approach one of your professors for help."

Harry nodded slowly. This was it. He needed to be very careful now. "You see sir...I didn't go there to stop Professor Quirrell from stealing the Stone. I knew he was going to steal it, of course -"

"Of course," Professor Dumbledore said, amused.

"So I'd been watching the third floor corridor every night, under my invisibility cloak. So when I saw him...I followed him."

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "And may I ask to what end?"

Harry hesitated. "I knew he was working for Lord Voldemort, sir, I figured that out after I started getting headaches in his class, what with the dark magic most likely acting up and all...and I was hoping that he might be able to tell me why...why Voldemort killed my parents. I've been wondering about it for a while now, sir."

That was plausible, right?

The old man nodded, seeming to buy Harry's story. "I see, I see. But you are aware, I'm sure, of the old words of wisdom, 'curiosity killed the cat'?"

Harry smiled sadly. "I am sir. But satisfaction brought it back, and...I think that there are things worth being curious about. Besides, death is just the next great adventure, right, sir?"

"Wise words, Harry," Professor Dumbledore said, with humour.

"Which reminds me sir, about my question for you."

"Ah, well, Harry, your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realise that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign... but to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection for ever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."

Harry frowned a bit. Professor Dumbledore seemed to be telling him the truth, but there was clearly more to it than that. He said as much.

"Indeed, my boy, there is. Magic, as I'm sure you're aware, is a truly wondrous thing. Magic is everywhere – in the world around us, and in the world inside us, as well. The most powerful of magics are those that make us human, like love, Harry."

"Then love is actually magic, sir?"

"In a way, Harry, in a way."

"I don't understand how that works."

"No one does, I think."

"Sir, you're evading my questions."

The man laughed, at that. But it wasn't mocking, it was warm and cheerful. "I see nothing gets past you, Harry."

"Well sir, I do have rather quick reflexes."

The old man laughed an even brighter laugh this time. "Indeed, indeed! I will be straight with you, then. The magic of love is complex and mysterious, and is deeply entwined with the magic of the soul – a very advanced, very dangerous form of magic, that few are aware of, and even fewer practice. And with good reason – when it comes to the magic of the soul, the line between light and dark grows very thin, and it is easy to lose sight of what you want and who you are, when delving into such magics. So I urge you, Harry, not to go searching this magic out."

"But sir, what if I really, really, want to know about it? What if I want to know how my mother saved me?"

Professor Dumbledore looked him in the eye, a sad smile on his face. "Then I ask that you wait, until you are bit older, and a bit wiser. It is easy to lose your way, when you are young, but age has a way of grounding us in reality, for better or for worse."

"That seems fair, sir."

"I'm glad to hear it! Now, do you have any other questions, Harry?"

Harry nodded. "The goblins at Gringotts, they said you have my key, and you're the one who gave me the invisibility cloak, right? Were you close to my parents, sir?"

"Indeed I was, Harry. I knew your mother and father very well. They were brave and kind people who loved you very much."

"Then, sir, were you the one who sent me to live with my Aunt Petunia?"

The Headmaster paused, but only for a moment. "I did."

"May I ask why, sir?"

"You may. The first reason is quite simple. You are quite famous in our world, Harry, and I thought it would be to your benefit to grow up away from all that."

"I respectfully disagree, sir."

"Oh?"

"My relatives, sir, they're muggles."

The man's lips quirked upward, a bit. "I am aware."

"Well, sir, they don't like magic, much. In fact, they don't like it at all...and they don't like me either."

The man frowned. "I am saddened to hear that, Harry."

"And I bring this up, sir, because I was wondering if there's any way I could stay here, at Hogwarts, instead of returning to Surrey. I know they'd be happy to see me gone."

His scar was burning now. Tom hated his relatives, yes, but he liked the freedom he had there. If Harry stayed at Hogwarts, someone would be keeping an eye on them, which would no doubt put a damper on Tom's plans. Harry didn't want that, but still...the prospect of never seeing the Dursleys, the locks on his door, or that horrible cupboard again was too tempting to resist.

Meanwhile, Professor Dumbledore sighed sadly. "I am afraid, Harry, that Hagrid is the only one who remains on Hogwarts grounds during the holidays."

"Then can I live with Hagrid?"

His scar burned even more.

"Well, Harry, this brings us to the second reason I sent you to live with your Aunt and Uncle. Your mother's sacrifice protects you to this day, as you saw with Professor Quirrell. Now, this protection also extends to your Aunt's house in Little Whinging, I'm afraid."

"How so, sir?"

"They are called blood wards, Harry, yet another piece of incredibly complex and fantastic magic. The gist of it, though, is that Voldemort and his followers cannot reach you while you reside in Number 4 Privet Drive."

Well, that explains a lot. "I see, sir."

"You must understand, Harry, that your safety is my first priority...which is why I sent you to live with your relatives in the first place - but this also means that I need to know if you at any point believe yourself to be unsafe with your Aunt and Uncle," the elderly man said pointedly.

Harry nodded slowly. "I understand sir. But you have...nothing to worry about."

"I'm glad to hear it. But Harry, should you truly require refuge, know that all you need do is ask. Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

Harry nodded. "I will keep that in mind, sir. Thank you, for answering my questions."

"Oh, not at all, Harry. I have quite enjoyed our little chat."

"But sir, there's just one more thing..."

"Yes, Harry?"

"The Stone...it wasn't here for protection, was it? It was bait."

The man's face became very grave. "Oh? And how did you come by this knowledge, may I ask?"

"It's not really so mysterious, sir. My understanding is that the Stone's been around for a very long time, but it only just got here, right?"

"That is correct."

"Well, if the Stone was moved, clearly someone was after it, and you had to have known that, right sir?"

"That is correct as well."

"Well, then why not hide it somewhere inconspicuous, then? I bet there are loads of places in the castle much harder to find than that room in the third floor corridor...which you happened to advertise at the welcoming feast. You knew Lord Voldemort wanted the Stone, sir, didn't you? And you figured if both me and the Stone were here, at Hogwarts, he wouldn't be able to resist. Right?"

"My, Harry, you truly are the prodigy everyone claims you to be, aren't you?"

"I don't know, sir. Looking back, it all seems pretty obvious."

Professor Dumbledore sighed. "These things usually do, in retrospect. I fear I owe you an apology, Harry. Because, I _was_ aware of the possibility that danger might find you here at Hogwarts, this year. I never meant for you to go seek it out, but it appears I underestimated you."

"It's alright, sir. I think I probably would have done the same in your position."

"Oh?"

"Well, there were four main possible outcomes, right? The first is that I would survive, and Voldemort would get the stone. The second is that I would survive, and Voldemort wouldn't get the stone. Another is that I wouldn't survive, and Voldemort wouldn't get the stone. The last is that I wouldn't survive and Voldemort would still get the stone. No matter what the outcome was, you'd have your proof that Voldemort's still around, and the last outcome is the only one that would be truly disadvantageous for you, isn't it? But for Voldemort, he really only would have considered himself successful if he'd gotten the stone. So no matter what, Voldemort reveals himself, and three times out of four, you win, but Voldemort only wins two times out of four. You clearly were the cleverer one in all of this, Professor."

Professor Dumbledore was staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. He was getting a lot of those, today.

"I assure you, Harry, that I would never consider your death to be a 'win', as you say."

Harry shrugged. "That's very nice of you sir, but I wouldn't hold it against you if you did."

The elderly man chuckled softly, sounding very old and tired, this time.

"Anyway sir, I actually have one last question."

"Just the one?"

Harry nodded. "I've been wondering, how did I get the Stone out of the Mirror?"

"Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone – find it, but not use it – would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking the Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes." He smiled to himself, as though thinking about some old joke he remembered telling long ago. "Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavoured one, and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for them – but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?"

He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he choked and sputtered, "Alas! Earwax!"

And with that, the elderly wizard left the room with a cheery, self-deprecating smile that Harry had to find somewhat endearing.

Once he had left, Madame Pomfrey made herself known.

"Harry...I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard..."

"What I said about my relatives," Harry said flatly.

The matron looked at him sadly. "Yes."

"Then you also overheard why I have to stay."

"But Harry -"

"Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it," Harry repeated, "But I'm not asking for anything."

"Now see here, young man -"

"I don't like my relatives, Madame Pomfrey, and they don't like me. And yeah, I'd rather stay here. But people don't always get what they want."

"Harry, this isn't about what you want. This is about you getting the care that you deserve! The care that all children deserve."

"I get exactly what I deserve, Madame Pomfrey," Harry said. He used his magic to hurt people, to scare them; he tricked Professor Snape into letting Tom into his house; he repeatedly poisoned Miss Jenkins so that they could borrow her body; he controlled people's _minds_ for _practice_ ; he killed that troll, broke Malfoy's leg, and invaded his friends' private thoughts on a regular basis as a learning exercise. Not to mention, he just murdered his Defence against the Dark Arts professor. Really, what _did_ he deserve? "And I'm fine. I'm safe. That's what matters. And I'd really appreciate it if you stopped asking."

The old woman closed her eyes. "I will respect your wishes, Harry. I won't press...now. But I'll never stop asking."

Harry sighed.

* * *

Predictably, Slytherin won the House Cup. After all the points they'd won at the Quidditch games and the extra points Harry was awarded for his 'heroics' (when he'd asked Professor Dumbledore about this, the kindly old man had simply said that Harry's true motivations in his expedition would remain between them), they were far ahead of the other houses. Needless to say, Harry was quite popular at the Year End Feast, but the suspicious stares were back, now. No one outright asked him about what had happened, but he could tell that they wanted to. He imagined he'd have to explain himself eventually...but for now he'd live with the suspicious staring, which he supposed he kind of deserved. He was now a two-time vanquisher of the Dark Lord, after all. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.

His friends had been another story.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" Hermione had shouted at him, "You could have been killed! Or worse! _Expelled_."

Theo snorted into his hot chocolate. The Room of Requirement couldn't make its own hot chocolate, but nothing stopped them from bringing their own.

"Voldemort killed my parents, Hermione. I just...wanted to know why. I grew up alone. I have no memories of being told that I'm loved, or cared for. I just wanted to know why. That's fair, right?"

Neither she nor Theo really knew what to say to that.

He ended up explaining everything to them, about Professor Dumbledore's trap and the Philosopher's Stone, which left them both quite stunned.

"You mean to say," Theo had said, "That you've known all this all this time, and you never said anything!?"

Harry had looked a bit sheepish at that. "I didn't really know how to broach the subject."

"Well you're doing just fine right now."

Needless to say, Hermione and Theo would be quite cross with him for quite some time. However, there was one distinctly positive outcome.

"Harry...I think I owe you an apology," Hermione had said after a long moment of silence, punctuated by the sounds of sipping hot chocolate.

He blinked. "For what?"

"I...I understand now," she said slowly, carefully, "I understand what you said about protecting ourselves. Back in January, I mean, when you were talking about practicing the...the dark arts."

Harry could see Theo's eyes widening. He, himself, was too shocked to react at all.

"If Professor Dumbledore let all this happen – on purpose! - then we really can't trust anyone, can we? I mean, how could he let this happen!?" she cried out suddenly, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes, "You were almost killed, Harry - we almost lost you!"

From the corner of his eye, he could see Theo nodding in agreement.

"And I can't bear to think...something like this could happen again, and I'd be helpless, I couldn't protect you even if I tried," she said shamefully, looking at her hands as tears started to trickle down her cheeks. "But I don't want that. I want to be able to help. I want to be a good friend, to protect you, if I can. But I can't do that, like I am now. I'm too weak."

Harry was holding his breath now.

"I want to learn everything you can teach me. You're my friend, and I won't lose you. Not if there's something I can do about it."

"Hermione..." was all he could whisper.

Meanwhile, Theo managed to get a hold of himself. "Are you saying that...you want to learn _dark magic_?"

Hermione blushed a bit. "If you'll teach me."

Then Theo did something none of them expected him to – he held out his hand for her to shake.

"Very well then. I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine."

Hermione sucked in a deep breath, and then wiped her tears away as she smiled brilliantly and grasped his hand, and before they could part, Harry reached out with his right hand and placed it on theirs.

"It can be a pledge," he said, "Between all of us, as friends. _I'll keep your secrets if you'll keep mine_."

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine," Hermione gladly agreed.

Harry grinned at that. "This is perfect! We can be like a secret society. You know, exchange knowledge and practice magic together an all that."

Hermione nodded avidly. "Oh, yes! We should have a name, too! What should we call ourselves?"

"It can't be something stupid," Theo said, "It can't be easy to make fun of."

"Like Death Eaters?" Harry said, ignoring the pain in his forehead.

His friends gave uneasy smiles at that.

"Well," Harry said, "Until we come up with a name for ourselves, we can call it the 'You-Know-What', and the Room of Requirement the 'You-Know-Where'. Kind of funny, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded. "I like it."

"Me too."

"Alright, then it's decided! This is the first official meeting of You-Know-What!"

* * *

Harry was nervous when he pulled his mirror out from under his pillow that night.

"Look, Tom, I know that you probably -"

"Well done, Harry."

Harry froze, staring into Tom's eyes, looking back at him from his own face. There was no affection on Tom's face, no pride, nothing at all – it was cold. And yet his eyes – something sincere was there. Something frank and unembellished and _true._

Harry could not help but gape. "W-what do you mean?"

"You have won their loyalty and confidence. You did so artfully, with no show of force or heavy-handed fear-mongering. It was beautifully done. So...well done, Harry." All of the show, the feigned sincerity had gone from Tom's words, and all that was left was pure...truth.

Harry, realizing that he had just been paid the highest, most sincere complement possible for his best friend to give, felt tears in his eyes.

"Thank you, Tom," he whispered.

* * *

Almost at the end of year one! One more chapter, to be precise.

Thank you for reading this far. As always, I appreciate your input, so please review!


	23. Farewell, Hogwarts

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the wonderful world of Harry Potter.

 **AN1:** This chapter is difficult because originally wasn't here; it kind of broke off from the previous chapter. So it's kind of short and choppy. Alas; it must be here to finish things off.

 **AN2:** Yeah, there's a lot of these today. I wanted to address a question that has been posed by at least a couple of readers now - is this going to be slash? In an ideal world, I'd say "spoilers!", but I know people like to know what they're getting into. So, there are two main parts of that question, and I'll look at both.

1\. Is TMR/HP going to be a thing? In short, no. As I implied in Chapters 7 and 17, Tom/Voldemort is incapable of feeling love or physical attraction. In 17 I even implied that one of his two sexual experiences may have been...less than consensual on the other party's part; the only time he really feels pleasure is when he's causing someone else pain. As for his relationship with Harry, he does feel some degree of affection for him (not unlike what canon Voldemort feels for Nagini), but to him Harry is ultimately a possession. A very, very valuable possession, but a possession nonetheless. As for Harry's part in this, he see Tom as his saviour, and is constantly caught in between his feelings of (almost religious) devotion to Tom and his desire to be a good person. That's all there is to it - Tom is much closer to being a flawed deity than a romantic interest in Harry's eyes.

2\. Will there be slash in general? It depends on what you mean. If you mean "is the main pairing going to be male/male?", then no. I won't have a main pairing, and romance will be a subplot at best. As for whether there will be mention of male/male (or female/female) relationships, then probably. I would like to have some LGBTQ characters in my story. Again, it won't be a major factor, though.

* * *

 **Chapter 23: Farewell, Hogwarts**

The end of term came all too quickly.

After exams they had a week to wait for results; suffice it to say, it was a tense week. Harry would admit to some anxiety over his exam scores, but the true source of worry was Hermione, who was fretting almost the whole time.

He'd managed to distract her a bit, mostly with You-Know-What related activities. For starters, he and Theo had been helping her with target practice – it turned out that while Hermione was excellent at quickly mastering almost any spell they put in front of her, her aim was...less than stellar. Apparently the bookish girl had never really been one for physical activities of any kind, so her stamina was quite low and her ability to hit moving targets was...stunted. Nevertheless, she was determined to catch up with them, so that she could participate in their weekly duels in the next school year.

Her progress in the area of spell-casting was, unfortunately, limited, though, because every time she started hitting the target more consistently, she'd lose concentration and start ranting about all the questions she thought she might have gotten wrong on her exams.

The same thing happened when they tried dueling, which Harry had been sure would hold Hermione's attention. At one point, Theo had actually stunned her accidentally with a _stupefy_ he'd expected her to block. When they asked her why she didn't use the shielding charm, she simply said.

"I think I might have sliced the willow root."

"So?" Theo had asked obliviously.

The outrage on her face was unmistakable.

"We were supposed to dice them!"

Apparently she'd been having nightmares about her Potions exam. Not that Harry really blamed her. Trying to brew a perfect potion with Professor Snape looming over them ominously was not an ideal exam setting. He was sure Neville Longbottom had been crying nearly the whole time. Honestly, he was surprised that nothing blew up.

When dueling and spell-casting failed to hold Hermione's attention, Harry tried to distract her with research; he proposed a mini research project, and she readily agreed, and on Sunday they'd gone to the library looking for ideas. They eventually found a book on Norse Runeology that caught their attention, and their intensive research session went well for all of 30 minutes before Hermione began to bemoan the astronomy problems she thought she got wrong. Apparently Professor Sinistra was quite close to Professor Babbling, and Hermione was horrified at the prospect on making a bad impression on her future Ancient Runes instructor before they even met.

In the end, their scores came back, and it turned out Hermione had nothing to worry about. She'd gotten top marks in nearly all her exams, as had Harry. He'd managed to beat her in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Transfiguration, and she'd come in first for History of Magic and Herbology, but they'd tied in everything else. Malfoy had beaten both of them at Potions, however.

Theo did quite well in all his classes...except History of Magic, but that was to be expected. No one liked Professor Binns much, and Hermione was the only one who paid attention in that class; even Harry preferred to daydream and do his own reading later.

Anyway, Theo was quite pleased with his marks. The other Slytherins seemed content as well – at least, there were no complaints (well, nothing too dramatic). Parkinson and Greengrass, at the very least, were quite smug, and Davis and Zabini feigned indifference as usual. Bultrode did surprisingly well, and Crabbe and Goyle of course did poorly, but Harry highly doubted they cared at all.

Ron and Neville were happy just to have passed all their courses, and Corner and Boot, who had become Michael and Terry by the end of the school year, did of course quite well. Harry was pretty sure Michael would have died of shame had he gotten anything less than an Exceeds Expectations, and Terry seemed to get decent marks without trying too hard, so it was unlikely he'd do badly.

All and all, Harry hadn't been very surprised about any of it – really, getting marks back was rather...dull and routine. What he hadn't expected, however, was for Professor Snape to pull him into his office on the night before they were to leave.

Harry had been walking with Hermione to the Room of Hidden Things, where they'd found a couple of interesting books on old Druid rituals that they were going to check on, and he'd nearly stumbled over in shock when the Potions Professor swept past him, sending a glare his way before saying,

"Follow me, Potter."

Sure enough, he and Hermione had just gaped at him for a moment.

"I haven't got all night!"

Harry glanced apologetically at Hermione before running after the ill-tempered professor.

Professor Snape didn't say a word to him – didn't even look at him – as he trudged down to the dungeons at a merciless pace that had Harry nearly jogging to keep up.

Harry's heart was pounding by the time they reached the professor's office, and his frame went stiff as he followed the man in. Was he in trouble? What did he do? He didn't think he'd done anything. All things considered, he thought he'd been very well behaved of late. Indeed, he was almost always well behaved. All he did was read. That's literally all he did. How does a professor get you in trouble for reading? But then again, if anyone could manage it, it _would_ be Professor Snape.

"Sit down, Potter."

Harry nodded meekly and took a seat across from his Head of House's desk.

The man glared at him for a moment, and he tried very hard to fidget under the man's harsh black stare – he thought he succeeded, but it wasn't easy.

"Potter," Professor Snape said, and Harry started at the sharp enunciation of his surname. "Do you know why you're here?"

"I...no sir. I have no idea, to be honest."

"Just a little over a week ago you were admitted to the hospital wing with life-threatening injuries. I want to know why."

Harry frowned slightly. "Sir, Professor Dumbledore should have -"

"Professor Dumbledore fed me an obvious lie with the implied footnote that if I wanted the truth I would have to hear the truth from _you_ ," the man snapped.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, Professor Quirrell was going to steal the Philosopher's Stone -"

"Yes, Potter, I'm very well aware of the circumstances. But if you truly mean to say that you followed Quirrell to the Stone as an attention-seeking, self-righteous, arrogant, conceited, half-witted, dunderheaded _Gryffindor_ then believe me, you will be scrubbing cauldrons September to May in the coming school year. Now _tell the truth_."

Harry paled a bit at the threat and made a show of gulping audibly – luckily, the Professor seemed pleased by his nervous reaction. "I...he was working for Lord Voldemort, sir."

The man flinched, but only slightly.

Now Harry had to be careful. Whether or not Professor Dumbledore was suspicious of him he could not say, but the elderly man seemed content to let things unfold for now. But Professor Snape – something told Harry he'd be more proactive in his search for the truth. Harry had to be convincing, and he needed to deter the professor from questioning him further. How does one go about deterring Severus Snape? Harry had no idea, except...well, what would be really nice is if he could get the Potions Professor to sympathize with him...if only slightly, for the sake of dispelling suspicion. The best way to do that? Well, that was actually quite easy. Play on the man's guilt. Harry knew he'd feel horrible about it later, but he also knew he couldn't afford to have Professor Snape as an enemy...not yet, anyway.

He let his face fall, and looked at his hands, making a great show of hesitating before he spoke.

"It's...private..."

The professor leaned forward with a scowl. " _Do I look like I care?"_

Harry grimaced. "You...can't tell anyone, sir," he said quietly.

All he received in return was a raised eyebrow.

He took a deep breath.

"Voldemort...he tried to kill me, ten years ago, and I don't know why I'm alive, sir," he said quietly, allowing his voice to waver slightly. "I don't know...why I survived. I don't know why any of it happened." He looked up at his professor, whose face was like stone, and willed his eyes to glisten just a bit. "I don't understand why...why us...why..." He took a deep breath. "What did my parents do to deserve to die? Why was he after them? Why did he try to kill...me?"

He felt something twist in his chest, and suddenly he wasn't acting anymore. Once again, he was acutely aware of Tom's presence in the back of his mind, the presence of the man who murdered the parents. The reason he grew up alone and unloved. His friend. His teacher. His confidant. His...family. The man who took everything from him.

He nearly grit his teeth. He needed to get a hold of himself – he needed to exude grief and fear, not guilt. He needed to continue his act.

"I wanted answers, because I just...I wonder sometimes...no, I wonder all the time...why it happened. Why I don't have any parents. I don't even remember them, sir. I don't even remember what they look like, what they sound like...except, sometimes I hear this voice, when I'm falling asleep, and I know it's my mum's. 'No, not Harry...please ha-'"

"Enough," the man said stiffly, and when Harry looked into his eyes, he saw it there – to anyone else, the Potions Master's face would have appeared to be devoid of any emotion, but Harry knew better. Harry knew that there was grief, and terrible, terrible guilt in those cold black eyes. "I...understand."

Harry sniffled a little. "You do?"

The man nodded curtly.

Neither of them said anything for a good long moment – they just stared at each other, coal black and emerald green meeting in an mutually silent exchange of guilt and grief.

"You may go."

Harry nodded shakily and wasted no time in fleeing the office.

His face twitched a bit as he walked up the stairs to the seventh floor corridor. He was caught up in the remorse he felt for what he'd just done while being simultaneously affected by the ambient smugness radiating through his head. Tom was proud. He could tell.

He couldn't figure out if he'd done the right thing, or had just needlessly hurt someone, and the unease didn't go away when Hermione handed him the small book on ancient Celtic rituals. He tried to read, but his mind kept coming back to his encounter with Professor Snape. He would need to think about it for a long time, he thought - the unfortunate event would more likely than not haunt his thoughts for the next few weeks at least - but then again, soon he'd have far too much time to spare.

That's right. Tomorrow was the start of summer holidays. Tomorrow he left Hogwarts. Tomorrow he returned to Number 4 Privet Drive, a whitewashed prison with a rose garden and a neatly trimmed lawn in front. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Dudley...

Did he miss them? Not a bit. Not one single bit. He wished he'd never have to see them again. He wished he'd never have to get yelled at, insulted, belittled, rejected, and scorned ever again.

Stupid muggles. Stupid, stupid muggles. Filthy. Cruel. Heartless. Fearful. Cowardly.

He didn't want to return to being hated and feared and locked away like a wild animal. He didn't -

"Harry? Are you alright?" Hermione said. "You've been staring into space for a while."

Harry looked at her, and he could not hid the grief, the sadness, the fear, or the simmering anger; indeed he could feel the most subtle of tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

"I don't want to go back," he whispered.

Hermione tried to smile. "Oh, come on, Harry. I know you love Hogwarts and everything, but don't you miss your family at all?"

A dark look came over Harry's face, and his tears disappeared. Miss them? Never. "Not at all. They hate me -"

"Harry, I'm sure they don't -"

"And I...think I may hate them too."

Hermione gasped. "That's a terrible thing to say."

"Maybe. But they were terrible first, the stupid muggles. They're all the same. Cruel, weak, small minded creatures. I don't want anything to do with them," he hissed with a scowl; he couldn't keep the words from tumbling out. Being around Hermione always made him want to be honest, for better or for worse. Besides, she was raised with muggles too. She'd understand. She knew what they were like.

"Has being in Slytherin changed you so much?"

Starting a bit, he looked at her with wide, confused eyes. "Being in Slytherin had nothing to do with this."

She raised an eyebrow. "Then how come you speak so poorly of muggles?"

"It's only the truth."

"Oh, come on, Harry! What's so bad about muggles?"

Harry grit his teeth, becoming a little annoyed. Why didn't she understand? She was raised by muggles, just like him. She should know of their cruelty and hatred of those that are better than them. "They think we're freaks! They despise us because we're stronger than they are! Don't you remember the all times when the muggles treated you badly, just because you have magic?"

Hermione sat up straighter, that look she had when she wanted to prove him wrong coming over her face. "No, as a matter of fact, Harry, I don't. I -"

"No one at school was scared of you?" he interrupted incredulously.

Hermione looked scandalized. "No of course not!"

"Not even after they saw your magic?"

Hermione frowned. "I never did magic at school, Harry. I didn't even know I _had_ magic. But that's not the point -"

"How is it possible that you _didn't_ do any magic at school? What about accidental magic?"

"Well, obviously there were a few incidents at home -"

A _few_ incidents?

"And your parents never punished you for it?"

"Well, no. They thought I didn't have anything to do with it. They always explained it away; they ignored it. Of course I didn't get punished! What were you expecting me to say?"

"That they hit you, made you go hungry, locked you away -"

Hermione looked horrified. "That's a terrible thing to say!"

Harry was taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. "Why?"

"You shouldn't exaggerate like that Harry, someone will get the wrong idea!"

"Exaggerate? You think I'm just saying things?"

"Well of course you are! No one's being hit or locked away, Harry."

"You're saying nothing like that's ever happened to you?!" he nearly shouted.

"Of course not! Who would do a thing like that?"

"Muggles!"

"Muggles are just people Harry, just normal people!"

"Well maybe that's what's wrong with them!"

"Harry James Potter! There's nothing wrong with being a muggle!"

Harry scowled angrily. "Of course there is!"

Hermione looked outraged. "What could possibly be wrong with being a muggle!?"

Harry was getting very, very frustrated now. "I told you, they're stupid, weak, and cruel. To them, we're just freaks. I don't know how you got so lucky. But that what it is, Hermione, luck."

She scowled. "Luck? What do you mean lucky?"

"My magic wasn't ignored, Hermione. The first time I accidentally did magic, they hit me and locked me in my cupboard for a day without any dinner. And the punishments got worse every time I showed them how much of a _freak_ I was!"

A dull ache was starting to form in his skull.

"Your...cupboard?"

"Yes, Hermione, _my_ cupboard. They made me sleep in a cupboard until I was eight, you know. And they hit me and locked me in there whenever I did something wrong. And believe me, I was _always_ doing something wrong. 'Boy, why's my coffee not ready?' 'How dare you score higher than Dudley on that test!' 'It's already four o'clock! Why's the garden not weeded?' 'Freak! I'll have none of that freakish-business in my house!' Always, always doing something wrong."

Hermione gaped. "They...they...your family...they hurt you?"

"That's what they do," Harry spat out.

"Why?"

"Because they're muggles!"

Hermione looked like she was about to argue, but instead bit her lip, hesitating. "You...why didn't you tell any teachers?"

"Because they wouldn't care! They all hated me too. They all knew about the _accidents_ I had at school, and they did everything they could to avoid me. The other children, too. And even if they did care, what would happen to me if they took my Aunt and Uncle away? Where would I go? An orphanage? Foster care? That wouldn't be much better. "

He head was pounding now; it took everything in him not to squeeze his eyes shut and double over in pain.

"That's not..." Hermione shook her head. "Then tell a Hogwarts professor! I'm sure -"

He took a deep breath, calming himself down. He needed to fix this. He needed to get rid of this headache. "I already tried. I asked Professor Dumbledore if I could stay here over the summer. He refused. He said there would be no one here to take care of me, and I can't go anywhere else, because there are special wards around the Dursleys' house. He essentially said it was a necessary evil. And..." he sighed in resignation, "To be honest, they don't treat me so badly anymore. They're too scared of me. Sometimes Uncle Vernon still smacks me on the head, and sometimes they lock my bedroom door for days at a time, but it's...tolerable."

The headache started to subside.

Hermione had tears in her eyes. "There has to be something we can do, Harry!"

"I've done everything I can. I managed to scare them into getting my own bedroom, into lessening my chores. They're too afraid to hit me, for the most part."

"Why would they be scared of you?"

Harry hesitated. "I may have insinuated that I could use my magic to...cause lots of trouble for them if they didn't start treating me better."

Hermione looked at him sadly. "I see."

"...you do?"

Hermione nodded reluctantly. "You did what you had to, Harry. If someone hurts you, you have a right to stand up for yourself! You're just a kid, and if no one will help you...well you had to protect yourself, didn't you?"

He stared at her with wide eyes.

"Just...tell me if I can do anything to help, ok?"

The headache had disappeared, and his heart leapt at her kind words. Suddenly he was overcome by warmth, and smiled brilliantly. "You're the best Hermione!" His smile turned into a frown. "But you have to promise you won't tell anyone."

"But Harry -"

"Hermione. I'm already the Boy Who Lived. I don't want to be the Boy Who Lived in a Cupboard Under the Stairs."

"Harry, I'm sure no one would look down on you for it -"

"My housemates might...and everyone else...they'd just pity me. I don't want to be pitied, Hermione. It doesn't do anything to help me, and it just makes me feel helpless. I refuse to be powerless in the eyes of others. I'm better than that. And I definitely don't want them interfering - I definitely don't want to be given away, put in an orphanage, into foster care. I'm sure you've heard stories, Hermione. You know how bad it could be." He looked at her solemnly. "Please...as my friend. Trust me. Don't tell anyone."

"But Harry -"

"Please Hermione. I've...thought about this a lot. I know what's best for me."

"Harry, they're hurting you -"

"No, they're not. Not anymore. You know me, Hermione. I look after myself. You trust me, right? I've never given you a reason not to."

"Harry..."

"Please, as my friend. Trust me."

She took a deep breath, and nodded slowly. "I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine."

Harry smiled softly. "I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine."

* * *

"Honestly, Granger, I don't know what's wrong with you. I'm quite happy with my Exceeds Expectations in Potions."

"That's not the point, Nott! Professor Snape likes you perfectly well - you've no excuse not to come out of it with an O!"

"Who needs an O when an EE is a perfectly reasonable alternative?"

"Reasonable!" The girl huffed. "Nothing but your very best is _reasonable!"_

Harry smiled softly as he listened to his two friends bicker over Potions marks, seated across from each other in the compartment they were sharing together. Sparing a glance at them, he nearly burst out laughing when he caught sight of Theo's sneer and Hermione's sour face. Shaking his head bemusedly, he turned back to the book in his hands - an early birthday present from Hagrid of all people.

Harry didn't care what Tom said about the man. Hagrid was brilliant - he knew exactly what he'd wanted for his birthday for years; a family, or the next best thing, anyway: a memory of a family. Something tugged inside his chest as he traced his mother's face with his finger, staring into eyes that were so much like his own; just like the statue in Godric's Hollow, the smiling woman in the photograph was incredibly beautiful, her face breathtakingly kind. Maybe, just maybe, he could not help but think, this woman would have loved him unconditionally. No matter what he'd done, she'd still love him. That's what he told himself, anyway.

Sighing, he carefully shut the book. He'd have lots of time to reminisce on what wasn't meant to be, but for now...

"Now, see, I think you both are being entirely unreasonable, and here's why -"

* * *

And that's it! Year one is over! Luckily, the rough draft for year two is already done (mostly), so I will be posting it right on schedule!

Thank you so much for reading this far. I hope you enjoyed it. If you have any thoughts, ideas, suggestions, or comments you'd like to share, please leave a review!


	24. Hermione Granger (Part 1)

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own this either. Geeze, rub it in, won't you?

 **AN:** Posting this morning, so I can read reviews on the long drive to Ottawa ;)

Anyway, I thought I'd kick off the new year with something brand new - Hermione's POV. I think this chapter works well as a good summary for the last year, and it was fun to write...hope it's also fun to read.

* * *

 **Chapter 24: Hermione Granger (Part 1)**

The tea shop on Annis and Weston was still and quiet. Understandably, most people were more interested in lemonade, ice cream, and water parks than a nice cup of earl grey; it was a warm Thursday afternoon, and the sun was shining brightly, heating the sidewalk at a pleasant twenty-five degrees Celsius, while, on the other side of the two centimetres of glass that were the shop's front window, said sidewalks bustled cheerily with Londoners and tourists and everyone in between. Sitting back in her chair, oak and upholstered in pink, and basking in the golden glow of the late July sunlight, Hermione smiled as she looked at the letter in her hands.

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _I hope you are still well – I suppose it has only been a week since you sent your letter, but a lot can change in a week._

 _I am doing fine. I really am. The Dursleys were quite unhappy to see me, of course, and immediately locked all my things in my old cupboard. Lucky for me, I can just unlock it in the night while they're asleep. Same with my room. If I give them cheek, which I've been inclined to do of late, they lock me in my bedroom without food. But again, despite the fact that there are seven padlocks on my door, it is of no difficulty for me to open them. They never quite caught on to that. They're really not too clever, you see._

 _I am eating. Not as much as the Dursleys, of course, but that is to be expected. They're rather...well, whale-ish, you see. Actually, that's not quite right. I suppose Uncle Vernon reminds me of a well-fed walrus, at times, and Dudley a baby hippopotamus. They eat far too much, and I am quite content in the knowledge that Uncle Vernon will probably meet his end at the hands of a heart attack within the next decade. The next five years, if the universe is lucky._

 _They have me working in the garden, but aside from that, there really isn't much for me to do except read. I very much appreciate your offer for books, by the way, but I can take a form of wizarding transportation called the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley to buy more books, should I require them. However, I think that for now I will try to lay low here in Surrey. Best avoid any possibility for trouble, since it seems to find me at the most unlikely of times._

 _Or rather, perhaps, I seem to find it._

 _I really appreciate your willingness to do some research for You-Know-What. I think it's a splendid idea to set a number of goals at the beginning of the school year. Perhaps a list of spells to learn and potions to brew, to start with. I will work on it from here, as well. Would you mind sending Theo a letter, and asking him to do the same? I gave him a note with the same address I gave you, and asked him to contact me with muggle post (as I explained, I can't have owls showing up at the Dursleys'), but it occurred to me that he most likely doesn't know how to use muggle post. In fact, could you explain to him how to do so? I would very much like to be able to contact him as well. Then we can exchange ideas, provide inspiration, and combine the lists on the Hogwarts Express in September._

 _As for your proposal, I would love to join you for tea at some point in the next two weeks. Just send me a place and time. I rather like the idea of going out for tea, actually – it's very...posh and grown up, don't you think?_

 _Anyway, as I said, I hope this letter finds you well._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Harry James Potter_

Oh, Harry, ever so polite, ever so pleasant.

Harry was a strange boy. He was short, small, with the messiest black hair she'd ever seen, and his eyes were the colour of emeralds. _Exactly_ the colour of bright, luminous emeralds, polished to perfection. His rather pretty eyes were constantly hiding behind old battered glasses with circular frames, though. It was a shame, really, because the delicate colour and pensive shade of his eyes reflected the finer points of his personality, she thought; while other boys his age were rash, loud, and usually quite unintelligent, Harry Potter was a sweet, quiet, thoughtful boy. For the most part, anyway.

All the teachers loved him, and in lots of ways he was the perfect student – always weeks ahead of everyone in class. She had been quite jealous of him, at first, ever since their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express. He'd easily cast the tickling charm before they even arrived at Hogwarts, not to mention the _silencio_ he'd apparently placed on Ron Weasley before she and Neville showed up. Indeed, she knew from the beginning that he would most definitely get in the way of her quest to be at the top of every class. How right she was. Harry Potter was, in her humble opinion, a genius...well, maybe not a genius, but _almost_ a genius. His spell-casting was impeccable, and his successes weren't flukes either - he asked very insightful questions in class and displayed a good understanding of the concepts that so many of their classmates either ignored or failed to grasp.

His skill at Transfiguration and Charms were most impressive. She knew her Head of House had a soft spot for the quiet Slytherin, as did Professor Flitwick; and with good reason - Harry was eager to learn, always on top of things, and exceptionally polite about all of it. Indeed, the only professor that seemed to dislike him was his own Head of House, the terrifying Professor Snape, for some reason that completely escaped her. Other than that one exception, though, he was, while not popular per se, almost universally well liked, both for his intelligence and his personality - she had no doubt that her rivalry with him would have turned bitter long ago were it not the fact that he was really quite modest and an extremely agreeable person.

However, that's not all there was to Harry. Hermione prided herself on her skill as an observer, and over the course of the school year, she had observed that Harry Potter put a lot of effort into his kind, polite persona, and was not as simple as his carefully crafted personality would suggest; throughout their time at Hogwarts, she had come to realize that there was something very dark and dangerous hiding beneath Harry Potter's warm and bright exterior.

Her first clue should have been the troll incident. It really was very brave and kind of him to rescue her, and it showed how powerful he was too - he was a first year, and had defeated a full grown mountain troll without breaking a sweat. Now _that_ was impressive. However...he had killed the troll without a second thought. He probably could have knocked it out, or pushed it away so they could make a break for it, but he didn't. Instead, he killed it. He had seemed sad about it after, but the sort of sad one gets when the book you're looking for has been already taken out of the library, not the sort of sad you'd feel for killing an animal or semi-intelligent magical creature like a troll. She was incredibly grateful that he saved her life...but his callousness was...unnerving.

And then there was the incident with Draco Malfoy. She had been quite shocked when Harry confessed to her what had happened. Only this time, he seemed truly remorseful.

"I feel completely horrible. I don't know what happened, I just...he was saying terrible things about my mother, and I snapped...and then snapped him, so to speak." He'd laughed nervously at his little joke. "It just gets so tiring, you know, looking the other way every time he tries to hex me, or insults me. I guess it just was too much. But I'm never going to let it happen again. I promise."

Hermione was sure he'd _try_ to make sure never to let it happen again, but she didn't know if he would succeed. After all, he'd made it clear that it really was an accident, which meant, by extension, that he'd had little to no control over it.

To tell the truth, she had been tempted to just go back to competing with him in classes after she heard that...she wasn't sure he was safe to be around, or a good person. But then she remembered how he risked his life for her, for no reason whatsoever, and the more she thought about it, the more she understood. Harry _was_ a kind person, but he was human, and got angry sometimes...and he was powerful enough that his magic acted up without his permission. Even she had to admit that Malfoy was sort of asking for it – he had been for two months already – and Hermione knew that were she in Harry's place, she probably would have hexed him already. Well, maybe not, but she sure would have told on him to a teacher, no doubt about it. But it wasn't in Harry's nature to be angry – that's what she chose to believe.

She had been correct. She'd never seen him angry since, much to her relief. It's always nice to know you've made a good judgement call.

However, she still didn't know Harry as well as she thought she did – just when she thought she had him figured out, he shocked her with his actions regarding the Philosopher's Stone. When she originally heard that Harry had gone to stop Professor Quirrell from stealing the Stone, she couldn't believe her ears. She would have thought Harry wouldn't care if some Stone got stolen – he was a rather easy-going type, and seemed content to let things happen most of the time.

It made more sense to her when he told her and Nott about his desire to find answers about his parents, but she was still surprised. All this time, he'd been troubled by the mystery of his parents' murder - troubled enough that he was willing to risk his life for answers. In retrospect, it made sense - his parents had been murdered when he was a baby by the most powerful dark wizard to ever live, and he'd somehow survived. She couldn't imagine how confusing and upsetting that must be. She'd just never considered it, because he seemed to go out of his way _not_ to talk about his parents at all. In fact, he went out of his way not to talk about his family in general, and on their last day at Hogwarts, she had discovered why: Harry was being _abused_. His relatives locked him up, and didn't give him enough food, and even hit him sometimes. What Harry had described to her sound terrible, and she couldn't imagine what it was like before, when it was apparently _worse!_

They had kept him in a cupboard! They called him a freak! It was horrible. How could they treat a little kid like that? Especially a nice, sweet, quiet kid like Harry! It took every ounce of loyalty and trust in her to promise not to tell anyone. Had it been anyone else, she would have done so in a heart beat - but this was _Harry_. He was strong, capable, and smart, and if he said he had things under control - who was she to question? Harry didn't seem like the sort of person who lets themselves suffer meaninglessly. There was a reason he wanted to stay with his relatives. She didn't understand it, but she didn't have to. She trusted him.

Anyway, it was really no surprise that Harry had a disdain for all things muggle, and thought that muggles weren't any good; no one in the muggle world had given him reason to believe otherwise.

Earlier in the summer time, she had sent him a letter inviting him to have dinner with her and her parents. He politely declined, and when she pressed him, she found out that he didn't like being around adult muggles.

" _I'm sure your parents are perfectly good muggles, and everything. I'd just rather not meet them right now. I apologize if this seems rude, Hermione."_

If it were anyone else, she'd be rather indignant about the whole thing, but it was Harry...a boy who grew up in a cupboard, and had nothing before he discovered magic. Why people like Malfoy and Nott looked down on muggles so much, she'd never understand – how many muggles had they actually _met? -_ but Harry...that made sense, in a very sad, messed up sort of way.

It wasn't right, though. It would take time, but eventually, she'd show him how wonderful the muggle world could really be. First she'd show him muggle music and films, and then she'd introduce him to her parents, and after that, she'd take him to meet some of her friends.

She figured that since she was letting him teach her dark magic, he might be at least somewhat willing to learn something from her.

And on that note...

She could hardly believe it. _Her_ learning _dark magic_. It was against the rules, and could get them in very big trouble, and on top of that, it was magic created to _hurt people_. But in the end she had to realize that what Harry had said those months ago had been correct – they really did need to learn to protect themselves.

A few months ago, her argument was clear.

1\. Hogwarts is safe.

2\. The professors at Hogwarts are equipped to, prepared for, and intent on protecting its students.

3\. If (1) fails and Hogwarts is no longer safe, in light of (2), Hogwarts remains effectively safe.

But it wasn't that simple. Hogwarts _wasn't_ safe – one of their professors had been possessed by You-Know-Who! How did that even happen? And moreover, a dangerous magical object had been kept at Hogwarts - _as bait_...just like Harry. She couldn't believe Professor Dumbledore would do something like that, and when Harry had shared his story, she had wanted to argue, saying that Harry had misunderstood, or _something_ , but she couldn't bring herself to do it, in the end.

Harry was intelligent and honest. He wouldn't say these things unless he was sure. He wasn't trying to get attention or break rules for fun – the very thought made her scoff – he was just trying to understand why his parents had been murdered in front of him, and survive in the meantime. That wasn't unreasonable. It wasn't unfair.

In the end, Harry was right. They couldn't trust anyone, really. She really, _really_ wanted to believe that the professors had their best interests at heart, and she _did,_ for the most part...but she had also been made aware that they, like her and Harry, were just human, and made mistakes too. If she turned a blind eye and something happened next year, or the year after, and Harry got hurt, she'd hate herself for it. He'd warned her, and sitting beside him in the hospital wing, she'd seen with her own eyes how ruthless and unfair the real world actually was. Harry was a good person, a promising student, and _just a kid_ , and there he'd been, lying in a hospital bed, after having been nearly murdered by a _teacher._ He was just a kid, and he'd nearly been killed by someone he was supposed to be able to trust. That was wrong, so wrong. And if she ignored all that, and Harry got hurt again...she didn't think she could handle it.

Harry had been right – it's not the magic itself, it's how you use it. That made sense. It was like anything else. Guns, knives, fists...muggles hurt each other too, and sometimes, there's a good reason. Sometimes, fighting is the right choice to make. So why was magic any different? Was there really something inherently _evil_ about dark magic?

After Harry had been taken to the hospital, she'd felt horrible, because he had warned her that there were dangers at Hogwarts, and she ignored it, and so she'd ended up doing research, to keep her mind off things. She'd been shocked by what she found. No one had bothered to tell her this (of course), but jinxes, hexes, curses – technically all of them were dark magic. Anything that wasn't a charm or a healing spell or transfiguration really. They were taught the dark arts in their Hogwarts classes. It was just a matter of _how_ dark things were. But where do you draw the line? Are curses that truly mean to cause serious harm the _real_ dark arts? But what about charms that cause harm? Harry had _decapitated_ a troll with a severing _charm_. An impossibly overpowered severing charm, but still, a charm. You could behead people with a _charm_. It was then that she realized – Harry had been right. It's not the magic itself, it's how you use it.

"You have to _mean it_ ," was what he always said when he tried to teach her something. It was true. Her spellwork had really improved once she'd taken his words to heart.

Yes, Harry Potter was truly an amazing person. In less than a year, he'd managed to teach her more than anyone else had ever before – whether it was about research, magic, or friendship. She only hoped she could repay him one day.

She was startled from her musings when a small bell rang and the shop door was pushed open. She looked at her watch - it was exactly 12:59 when Harry walked through the door, several shopping bags in hand.

She smiled at him, waving him over.

"Harry! I'm so happy that you made it!"

Harry smiled at her with that sheepish smile he almost always had on his face. "Me too."

She looked at him curiously. "How did you get here?"

"Oh, I asked my Uncle Vernon to drop me off in London on his way to work...I got there this morning, and -" here, he grimaced a bit "- went clothes shopping."

Hermione laughed. "Does that mean you'll throw out those old rags you're always wearing?"

"That's the plan."

At that moment, the waitress, Cayla Martins, walked up to them. The fifteen year old had a bright smile stretched across her glossy lips, her freckled cheeks painted softly with an ever-present rosy blush. Cayla was probably one of the prettiest girls she knew, she had realized recently.

"Oh, Hermione! It's lovely to see you! Where's your mother?"

"I-it's just me today," she replied quickly, "And my friend, Harry."

The waitress looked at Harry (who was looking at her intently with his head tilted to the side) and then back at her, and winked. "Do your parents know you're on a date?"

Hermione could feel her cheeks heating up, and she looked over at Harry, who was looking extremely puzzled now. "Oh no! It's nothing like that! Harry's just a friend from school."

"Your boarding school in Scotland?"

Hermione fought to remove the blush she knew was still on her face. "...that's right."

"Well, it's good you're making friends. Just make sure you don't make your boyfriend jealous by having this cute little guy around too often."

Hermione winced, stomach squirming oddly. "I don't have a boyfriend, Cayla."

"If you say so. Anyway, what can I get for you two?"

"Just a pot of earl grey," Hermione said, "You like earl grey, don't you, Harry?"

Harry just shrugged absently, still looking pretty puzzled, and a bit wary.

Cayla laughed. She had a lovely laugh. "One pot of earl grey it is."

Once she left, Harry immediately asked, "Is there something wrong with her?"

"W-what?"

"You were acting oddly, is all." His face turned grim. "That _muggle_ -" he sounded very unhappy when he said the word "- didn't do something to you, did she, Hermione?"

She gaped at him. "No! No, it's nothing like that! It's just...just...nevermind. It doesn't matter."

"...if you're sure."

"I'm sure. So," she said, eager to change the topic, "What did you get?"

Harry peered into his bags. "Um...a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt, a button-up, a jumper, and a coat. Oh, and some new sneakers." He pulled a box of black and white high-top Converse sneakers out of the bag and grinned. "I saw them on the telly. The Dursleys think they look silly, which is why I bought them."

She laughed. "Well, I, for one, can't wait to see you in some _real_ clothes."

"I hope I don't disappoint."

She shook her head with a fond smile, but then frowned. "I hope your uncle didn't give you any trouble."

Harry smiled wryly. "I'd be worried if he didn't. But I told him I'd set his shoes on fire if he didn't take me along with him."

"And he believed you?"

"Well, I've done it before."

"Harry!"

"What?" he said, looking genuinely confused. "I could have set _him_ on fire, but I didn't. I thought that was rather nice of me."

Hermione shook her head. If she didn't know Harry to be such a kind, brave person, she'd no doubt think he was a sociopath. No, he wasn't a sociopath, she sometimes had to remind herself, he was just...socially inexperienced. Understandably so. "Well, I'm just happy you're here."

He smiled brilliantly at her. "Me too!" he chirped.

"So," she began, "Have you been reading anything interesting?"

Harry grinned. "Oh, I've done _loads_ of reading. It's all I really have to do, you see? Well, besides gardening and cleaning and whatnot. I started by reading some history – on the Vietnan War. It was rather upsetting, but I managed to pull through. Then I read some mathematics. It's very fascinating. In Year 10 they study these things called functions – they're actually really clever, and I like them a lot."

"You've been doing...muggle school?"

"Well, history is an important subject for any witch or wizard, and maths are crucial for arithmancy, which I'm definitely taking in third year. I'm not actually going to school – just reading things from the library."

Hermione looked at him with appreciation in her eyes. "That's actually...a really good idea. I think I'll do the same - wait, did you say you were doing Year 10 maths?"

"Well, yes, I'm quite ahead with the maths stuff. I rather like it."

Hermione's eyes were wide. "They bumped me up a year, back in primary school, but I've never even seen the Year 10 stuff."

Harry shrugged. "It's not too hard. I'm sure you can learn it."

At that moment, Cayla came and poured them both a cup of tea.

"Enjoy!"

"Thanks Cayla -"

The girl was already gone. Oh well.

Drawing her attention back to the conversation, she nodded at Harry avidly. "And have you been reading any magic books?"

Harry perked up even more at that. "Oh yes, of course! I've started reading the fourth year potions text."

" _Fourth year_?"

"Well, yes. I never know what Professor Snape will throw at me, do I?"

Hermione scowled. "I honestly don't know why he insists on picking on you so often. It's not fair!"

Harry looked at her blankly. "Well, he hated my father and was in love with my mother."

" _What_?"

"He hated my father and was in love with my mother," Harry repeated.

"So, wait, he treats you so badly because of your _parents?_ "

Harry shrugged. "I guess so."

"That's horrible, Harry!"

"Maybe. Anyway, I've been reading through next year's Charms text too...I'm almost done. That's been pretty fun. I practice everything I can wandlessly, but I can't wait until I can practice in earnest."

"Wait, I thought we can't do magic outside of school!"

"Not with our wands, no. But if we do simple magic without a wand, it gets written off as harmless accidental magic."

Hermione gaped at him. "And how would you know that?"

"Er, trial and error?"

"Harry James Potter! What if you had been expelled?"

"Ah, the fate worse than death, you mean?"

She was never going to live that down.

"They would have given me a warning first, Hermione. Besides, aren't you glad I tried? Somebody had to."

She huffed. "I guess so. But how do you even do magic without a wand? I've tried it. It doesn't work."

"Lots of concentration, hard work, sleepless nights, and hair pulling," Harry laughed. "Honestly, it took me forever to get even the levitating charm right."

Harry could levitate things wandlessly? No wonder he found their classes so easy! Half the stuff they learned he could already do without a wand. "What other spells can you do with out a wand?"

"Um, _alohomora, incendio, diffindo, expelliarmus, bombarda,_ and the disillusionment charm, but only kind of. It more just makes me...unnoticeable, not quite invisible _._.. and that's it, I think."

She was pretty sure she was gaping, now.

"I've been practicing this sort of thing for a long time, but it's still not as good without a wand, of course. I'd never be able to decapitate anyone without a wand!" he said humorously, "And my _bombarda_ is still pretty weak. Well, I say 'pretty', but I mean 'very'."

Was Harry really this powerful? He could do second year charms without a wand, even the fourth year disillusionment charm, and now that she thought about it...he said that he discovered magic when he was 8...that he used it to scare his family. Had he been controlling his magic since back then? How strong _was_ Harry?

"Um, Hermione...are you ok?"

She blinked. "Oh, yes, I just...you're really amazing, you know that?"

He grinned bashfully. "Oh, not really. Not yet, anyway."

She wouldn't come to understand the full meaning behind those words for quite some time.

* * *

They'd chatted for another hour or two - Hermione had recounted all the books she'd been reading and told Harry about the cousins she was going to visit in France, and then they discussed You-Know-What - before Harry sadly informed her that he needed to go meet his Uncle Vernon soon.

"I have no doubt that he'd leave me in London, given the chance."

Before he left, she reached into her backpack.

"I know it's your birthday next week. I got you something."

He blushed. "Oh, Hermione, you didn't have to -"

"I wanted to," she interrupted placing two objects on the table. "Don't open them until July 31st, though! No cheating!"

He grinned. "Cross my heart, hope to die. Thank you so much, Hermione, you're an amazing friend."

And with that, he dashed out the door of the tea shop, leaving her there, smiling.

The first present was a book. _A Structural Analysis of Magical Contracts_ , by Eviatar Erlinger, and the second was her old discman, a pair of headphones, and several mixed CDs she'd made herself. Bach's Preludes and Fugues, and his Cello Suites. It would be his first introduction to how wonderful the muggle world could really be.

Little did she know, Johann Sebastian Bach had been a wizard.

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review!


	25. Letters (Part 1)

**Disclaimer:** I don't even own this.

 **AN:** I understand that the language in these letters sounds very mature...I urge you to think of your 'penpal' assignments in primary school, and recall how much fun it was to sound about 3 times your age, because you got to 'talk' with a thesaurus as a reference. Ah nostalgia...

* * *

 **Chapter 25: Letters (Part 1)**

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I do hope this letter reaches you. I sent it to the address you gave me. It would really be a shame if I got a number wrong or something._

 _Supposing this letter_ does _reach you, I hope it finds you well. What have you been doing? Are the Dursleys treating you alright? Are you eating three meals a day? Do you have enough to read? I can get you more books from Diagon Alley, if you like. My parents are happy make the trip there._

 _I have been enjoying my summer so far – I've seen some of my friends from primary school, which has been nice. Though...it really is frustrating to have to lie about everything to them. I told them I went to an old boarding school in Scotland, very private and prestigious and everything, but it all feels so hollow – the truly wonderful parts of Hogwarts are the magical parts, which happen to be the very things I need to keep secret. At least I can talk to my parents. They're very confused about a lot of things, which is understandable, seeing as they're muggles, but they're happy to listen, which I appreciate._

 _Speaking of my parents, they've invited you to dinner. This Saturday, if you can make it. I told them all about you, and they're eager to get to know you. I assure you that they're perfectly nice people, and it would be no imposition at all, if that's what you're worried about._

 _Please do write back soon. I miss you, and I worry about you._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _Thank you for following my instructions. Please keep sending letters to the address on Wisteria Walk that I gave you. My neighbour, Mrs. Figg, is aware that you will be sending my letters there, and has kindly allowed me to come by once a week on Tuesday mornings to receive my mail._

 _I am doing alright. Life outside of Hogwarts is incredibly dull, but that is to be expected, I suppose._

 _I am glad to hear that you have enjoyed seeing your friends. I imagine it is difficult being parted for ten months from people you used to see every day. I wouldn't know, seeing as I was disliked by everyone at my primary school, but I can imagine it is unpleasant. Good to know you haven't been breaking the Statute of Secrecy, as well._

 _I hope you continue to enjoy your summer._

 _As for your invitation, I am afraid I will have to decline. I'm sure your parents are perfectly good muggles, and everything...I'd just rather not meet them right now. I apologize if this seems rude, Hermione. I certainly don't wish to offend you. I just don't feel very comfortable around adult muggles._

 _I miss you as well, though, and would love to see you at some point before the summer's end._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Harry James Potter_

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I understand, about the dinner invitation. I thought you might refuse, to be honest. I'm not offended, and neither are my parents. I just told them you're a bit shy, and they understood. Perhaps another time, when you are feeling a bit more open to the idea._

 _I, however, would still love to see you. Perhaps we can have tea? There's a nice little tea shop a few blocks away from my house. My mother and I use to go there are least once a month to have tea together. I think you'd like it – it's quite pleasant and quaint._

 _Also...Harry James Potter! Don't think I didn't notice that you avoided my questions. I_ do _want to know what you've been doing, and I most certainly want to know if the Dursleys are treating you alright. They haven't locked you up, right? They're feeding you enough? I already asked all this, I realize, but you completely avoided the subject altogether!_

 _I am worried, Harry. With what you told me back at Hogwarts...it's hard to keep my promise. Really hard. But I swore to you on our pledge of friendship, so you don't have to worry; your secret is safe with me._

 _As for me, I am still doing quite well. You don't have to worry about me. I'm sure I'll have a perfectly pleasant summer._

 _Oh! And I still wanted to know, do you need some books? I'll probably be going to Diagon Alley soon, because I was hoping to do some research for You-Know-What. I thought it might be helpful to put together a list of goals for next year._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _I hope you are still well – I suppose it has only been a week since you sent your letter, but a lot can change in a week._

 _I am...doing fine. I really am. The Dursleys were quite unhappy to see me, of course, and immediately locked all my things in my old cupboard. Lucky for me, I can just unlock it in the night while they're asleep. Same with my room. If I give them cheek, which I've been inclined to do of late, they lock me in my bedroom without food. But again, despite the fact that there are seven padlocks on my door, it is of no difficulty for me to open them. They never quite caught on to that. They're really not too clever, you see._

 _I am eating. Not as much as the Dursleys, of course, but that is to be expected. They're rather...well, whale-ish, you see. Actually, that's not quite right. I suppose Uncle Vernon reminds me of a well-fed walrus, at times, and Dudley a baby hippopotamus. They eat far too much, and I am quite content in the knowledge that Uncle Vernon will probably meet his end at the hands of a heart attack within the next decade. The next five years, if the universe is lucky._

 _They have me working in the garden, but aside from that, there really isn't much for me to do except read. I very much appreciate your offer, for books, by the way, but I can take a form of wizarding transportation called the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley to buy more books, should I require them. However, I think that for now I will try to lay low here in Surrey. Best avoid any possibility for trouble, since it seems to find me at the most unlikely of times._

 _Or rather, perhaps, I seem to find it._

 _I really appreciate your willingness to do some research for You-Know-What. I think it's a splendid idea to set a number of goals at the beginning of the school year. Perhaps a list of spells and potions, to start with. I will work on it from here, as well. Would you mind sending Theo a letter, and asking him to do the same? I gave him a note with the same address I gave you, and asked him to contact me with muggle post (as I explained, I can't have owls showing up at the Dursleys'), but it occurred to me that he most likely doesn't know how to use muggle post. In fact, could you explain to him how to do so? I would very much like to be able to contact him as well. Then we can exchange ideas, provide inspiration, and combine the lists on the Hogwarts Express in September._

 _As for your proposal, I would love to join you for tea at some point in the next two weeks.. Just send me a place and time. I rather like the idea of going out for tea, actually – it's very...posh and grown up, don't you think?_

 _Anyway, as I said, I hope this letter finds you well._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Harry James Potter_

* * *

 _Theodore Nott,_

 _This is Hermione Granger. I'm contacting you on behalf of Harry, as he does not have access to an owl at this point, only to muggle post. You might recall that he gave us both an address when we parted. This is the address of his neighbour, Mrs. Figg, who has agreed to collect his letters for him._

 _It occurred to him that you might not have the knowledge nor the means to send letters through the muggle post, however, and he asked me to contact you for him, and explain to you how to send him letters._

 _Assuming you still have the address, you simply need to write it on an envelope, and bring it to the local muggle post office. If you don't know where that is, I'm sure you could ask any muggle and they'd be able to tell you. Once at the post office, you can ask them to send the letter for you. There might be a small fee (just a few pence, really), but I'm not sure how you would go about receiving the letters. It really depends on where you live. Perhaps you could send Harry your street address._

 _Anyway, if you have any questions, please contact me._

 _I hope this letter has found you well, and that the summer has been pleasant for you so far._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Hermione Granger_

* * *

 _Granger,_

 _I am not sure what 'street address' or 'pence' are. I think that rather than waste both our time one this muggle post thing, I will send Harry letters via yourself until we can make other arrangements_ _, if you have no objections, that is._

 _Enclosed is a letter for Harry._ _I trust you have enough good sense not to look at other people's letters._

 _I hope you are doing fine as well, and enjoying your holiday._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Theodore Nott_

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _The address for the tea shop is 145 Weston Street. I will be there on July the 23_ _rd at 1 pm_ _, waiting for you near the front of the shop._

 _Now, I would scold you about being 'content' with the idea of your uncle's death, but to be honest, I can't find it in my heart to be particularly worried for him either, so perhaps that's all that needs to be said about it._

 _Honestly, I don't understand how some people can be so horrible (not you, your relatives)._

 _Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing you. In fact, I'm quite excited!_

 _Sincerely,_

 _Hermione_

 _P.S._

 _Enclosed is a letter Nott asked me to send on his behalf._

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I trust you'll find it in your heart to forgive me for not wanting to waste my time on figuring out how to use the muggle post. It really seemed rather tedious, and Granger started talking about 'pence' and something called a 'street address', whatever that is._

 _I understand that you cannot have owls looking for you because of those horrid muggles, so perhaps I can arrange a place and time for my owl to drop off and collect letters for you...for now I will send letters through Granger._

 _I hope you are well, and that your bloody muggles aren't treating you too poorly. Honestly, to think that filthy little creatures like them would dare to harm a wizard – they must be incredibly foolish muggles. Please remember to set their belongings on fire several times before September. I'd like to hear all about it. Also, should you require any assistance in planning your grand revenge (which will be served cold on your seventeenth birthday, I assume), please let me know. I would be happy to help._

 _I hope you plan to do more than just read, this summer. It would be so typical of you to lock yourself in your bedroom and waste away with a book in your hand. Please, please tell me you don't plan to just starve yourself and read all summer._

 _As for myself, my father has, as usual, insisted on visiting family and friends in France and Germany. We only recently returned. It's very dull, I assure you. Lots of parties with fancy dress robes and caviar and champagne. I was required to visit my grandparents, who are, frankly, almost dead, and certainly act like it. Grandfather of course wanted to know all about the Potter that got sorted into Slytherin, and was curious about whatever dastardly plan I have for our 'alleged' friendship. Honestly, you'd think that the man forgot what it's like to simply have friends. He probably has, actually. No one likes him much. My father has also been curious about you, but I try to say little about you, considering his...political leanings. I have a feeling you're clever enough to know what I'm talking about. He was, however, very impressed that you managed to thoroughly frighten Draco Malfoy. I think he dislikes the little twit..._

 _I saw Draco and Daphne Greengrass a few times...similar social circles, and all that. They seem to be doing fine. They both went red in the face when I mentioned you, for different reasons, I imagine. You do realize that Daphne Greengrass has a serious crush on you, right? She's blonde and filthy rich, so I'd take advantage of that, if I were you. I realize she and her friends are incredibly annoying, but I've heard that blonde girls make good girlfriends, and people marry rich for a reason. Just some friendly advice._

 _Anyway, that's about it, really._

 _Please write back._

 _Sincerly,_

 _Theo Nott_

* * *

 _Dear Theo,_

 _Thank you for writing. I'm glad you seem well._

 _You shouldn't be so quick to dismiss these parties, I believe. I don't even know what caviar is, and I've never even seen champagne, so I think it would be quite an adventure indeed. Far more interesting than weeding the garden (that's when you pull unwanted plants out of the garden) – of that, I am quite sure._

 _I suppose you dislike your grandparents, then? Mine are all dead, so when people talk about being doted on by grandparents (Bulstrode), or disliking them (Greengrass), or being annoyed that they don't speak English (Zabini), I really don't know what they're on about. Perhaps it's for the best, though._

 _I have...mixed feelings about the fact that news of my...confrontation with Malfoy has reached even your father's ears. I assume Malfoy told his father, who told yours. If you could do everything in your power to downplay the event, your efforts would be much appreciated._

 _I am aware that Daphne Greengrass seems to have developed...feelings for me. I am also aware that this became the case after Malfoy's unfortunate injury. She seems to be under the impression that I'm an extremely powerful wizard that finds pleasure in harming others, which is simply not the case. As I would feel bad about disappointing her so thoroughly, I believe I will keep my distance._

 _The muggles haven't changed. They seem to have a unique ability_ not _to learn from past...mishaps. They are still under the impression that their little muggle locks can deter me, and seem to still believe that I am their personal house elf, but as I still require their continued allowance of my presence, I make no serious efforts to correct them._ _I have not put much thought into revenge. To be honest, I don't consider them to be worthy of my time. The moment I turn seventeen, I will leave, and never even think of them again. However, should I decide that revenge is an option that I would like to pursue, I'd be happy to include you._

 _I do plan to read all summer, (unfortunately?). I will practice some wandless magic, as always, but books are unfortunately the only respite I have from the doldrums of the muggle world. I have already read through most of next year's charms text (which I bought with my first year text last year), and am currently reading the fourth year potions material. I would like to be prepared for Professor Snape's inevitable pop quiz._

 _Now, onto business. Hermione proposed that we put some thought into our plans for You-Know-What. Namely, she believes it would be helpful to compile a list of goals for the year. I wholeheartedly agree. Thus, your input would be greatly appreciated. We can discuss this in more detail on the Hogwarts Express, but I would recommend giving it some thought ahead of time._

 _Unfortunately, Hermione is leaving for France shortly, and will not be able to assist us in exchanging letters. As for exchanging post via owl...Arabella Figg, my neighbour, collects my mail for me. She's not incredibly bright, so perhaps I could convince her that I have a friend that trains birds to deliver letters. I go there Tuesday mornings at eleven o'clock to receive my letters. If you could have your owl at Ms. Arabella Figg's house on Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging at 11 am every Tuesday, we can exchange letters that way. If that is acceptable, please send a letter for the coming Tuesday._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Harry James Potter_

* * *

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _A letter for Theo is enclosed._

 _I greatly enjoyed our chat Thursday. You were right, the tea shop was quite pleasant._

 _Now, I recall that you mentioned you would be leaving for France in a few days, and would be gone for the rest of the summer. I do hope you have an excellent time._

 _Please rest assured that I am safe, eating, and have plenty to read._

 _I look forward to seeing you September 1_ _st_

 _Most sincerely,_

 _Harry James Potter_

* * *

 _Nott,_

 _Harry's letter is enclosed._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Hermione Granger_

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I sent Nott the letter._

 _I am leaving tomorrow for France, and am very busy with packing, so I don't have much to say, but I really do look forward to seeing you as well. I miss you a great deal, and I assure you that I will spend much of my remaining holiday wishing that you were here with me._

 _Please do remain well (enough)._

 _Your friend,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well, and that my owl reached you. It will return to the same place in precisely one week to pick up your response._

 _In case you were genuinely wondering, caviar is fish eggs - ew! - and champagne looks like butterbeer, but lighter._ _And for the record, should you desire to attend any posh parties in the future, I'm sure that it can be arranged. In fact, I'd love to have someone to share in my misery. Daphne and Pansy have always enjoyed these awful events for some reason, and Draco and Zabini...well, Zabini is too much a snob to share anything, and I have no desire to hear about any of Draco's misery._

 _I will do my best to downplay the Malfoy incident. Just the other night I told my father that nothing similar has happened since, and that such outbursts are uncharacteristic of you (both of which happen to be true) - he asked about you again after he saw me reading the letter you sent me. I still try not to talk about you, but my father is an intelligent man, and I fear that he deduces a great deal from the letters I sent him during the school year and what little I've told him over the last two months. For example, I mentioned that we were learning occlumency, and he somehow guessed that we're practicing the dark arts, from that. He heartily approves, of course, and finds amusement from the fact that his son is being taught curses by a Potter, not that I told him that you're teaching me anything. He deduced that from the Malfoy incident and the study club (of which I told him very little). Honestly, it's like I can't tell the man anything without him learning more than I want him to. It irritates me to no end._

 _Also, speaking of my father, what do I tell him about the Philosopher's Stone incident? He's asked a few times now, and I don't know if I can get away with evading the question for much longer._

 _Anyway, I admire your strength of spirit when it comes to the muggles. I am more convinced than ever that you have more dignity than half the purebloods in our house. Can you imagine what Draco would do if he had to put up with your muggles? Constant whining and ranting about what his father would do when he finds out, that's what. Still, I encourage the revenge thing - I would like to see your muggles suffer for what they've done; don't think you've fooled me into thinking you've told me everything. I know it's worse than you let on. Don't worry, though, I won't pry. I'm not Granger._

 _And speaking of Granger, I will indeed assist you two in thinking of ideas for You-Know-What. I'll see if I can find any interesting spells in my father's library. I'll try not to pick anything too gruesome for Granger's sake. I'm just kidding, of course - any books my father has containing anything too spectacular are locked away, no doubt._ _I doubt I'll have to do much, though, considering the two thirds of our group that aren't me are obsessive bookworms of the highest order. If it weren't for the fact you were stuck with muggles, I would never let you get away with spending the summer reading fourth year potions. I mean, seriously? I understand not wanting to be butchered by Professor Snape, I really do, but this is a bit ridiculous. Maybe it's time to accept that he'll never like you. Just saying._

 _Anyway, hope you're well. Please feel free to complain about the muggles. I'm always here to listen._

 _Also, Happy Birthday (it was yesterday, right?)._

 _Your friend,_

 _Theo_

* * *

 _Dear Theo,_

 _Thank you for answering my implicit questions about caviar and champagne. I'm sure that knowledge will come in handy some day._

 _I may take you up on that offer to accompany you to one of your 'posh parties' on day...one day when I own more than muggle clothing and Hogwarts robes. I realize that it's probably incredibly tedious to you, but it really does sound like something of an adventure to me._

 _I appreciate your discretion when it comes to your father, but please don't worry about it too much. As long as your father doesn't disapprove of your association with me, I see no reason to mislead him purposefully, and while you believe he doesn't wish me any harm, I don't have anything against him. However, I must ask that you avoid mentioning Hermione. I imagine he would not approve of your association with her, and I can't have her put in any danger because of her friendship with us. Even if your father has changed some of his views regarding muggle-borns, I have no doubt that he has associates who have not._ _As for the 'Philosopher's Stone incident', tell your father what I told you. I want to know more about the man who took my parents away from me, and I was willing to go to great lengths to speak to someone I deduced was in his employ. It's really not so complicated and it's no great secret - I appreciate Dumbledore's insistence on protecting my privacy, but I wouldn't say it's necessary._

 _Similarly, I appreciate the fact that you don't want to pry, and if it's all the same to you, I'll refrain from complaining about the muggles. I really just don't want to think about them any more than I have to._

 _Oh, also, I received a present this year, from Hermione! It's called_ A Structural Analysis of Magical Contracts, _by Eviatar Erlinger, and it's absolutely brilliant. Even the table of contents is exciting! I believe I'll need to become more accomplished at ancient runes and arithmancy to really understand the material in all its depth, though._ _I don't know if I mentioned it, but magical oath construction is actually a branch of spell-crafting. It's possible, of course, to take oaths without any knowledge of spell-crafting theory, but in order to really understand the magic behind it, you need to have an understanding of the more theoretical foundations of the art. I've already got my spell-crafting book, thankfully, and last year I bought my third year arithmancy and ancient runes texts, so I have some references to work off of. Based on the preface and table of contents of Erlinger's book, I expect that if I can truly grasp the material, I'll even be able to construct my own magical contracts virtually from scratch! How awesome is that?_

 _Also, you'll be happy to know that I've been doing more than just reading - I've finished learning several of the charms of our second year text - I'll show you on the Hogwarts Express in a few weeks._

 _Anyway, what have you been doing? You're staying in England for the rest of the summer, right?_

 _Sincerely,_

 _Harry James Potter_

 _P.S._

 _Would you happen to know where I might find a Blood Quill? I find myself in need of one - for educational purposes of course._

 _P.P.S._

 _What do you know about house elves? Do you have any? If you do, can you ask them if they know anyone named Dobby?_

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _We'll get you some dress robes, and then you'll regret your acceptance of my offer._

 _My father doesn't disapprove of our friendship, and he would never try to stand in the way of our...extracurricular education - he values discretion above anything else, believe me. But that doesn't mean we can trust him. Trust me when I say that my father isn't a good person - you should keep your distance. I would if I could._ _And don't worry. I'd never tell my father about Granger. I'd rather not have that discussion._

 _Speaking of Granger, I'm glad you've found someone to share in your toxic obsession with reading. Because that's what it is, you know, toxic. You two are wasting your childhood, you know. Magical contracts? Seriously? Could it get anymore dry?_

 _As for I've been doing..._

 _You've inspired me to do some reading, so I'll admit to having spent some time looking at next year's booklist. Have you seen it? All those Gilderoy Lockhart books? It's ridiculous. I saw Pansy and Draco the other day - the stupid girl won't stop talking about 'brave, dashing Gilderoy Lockhart'. Draco was quite irritated with her and reminded her that he is a halfblood, but she just sputtered and concluded that she didn't care! Can you believe it? Pansy Parkinson fancies a halfblood wizard three times her age! I will be teasing her mercilessly for years to come._

 _Other than that...I've seen Draco a few times. We played Quidditch, like we used to when we were kids. He's really not so bad when you give him a broom; rather, he's not so bad when he doesn't have anything to complain about._

 _As for your question about house elves...what exactly do you want to know? My father owns one - her name is Nilly, and she claims that one of the Malfoys' elves is named Dobby. Why did you ask? It's a really odd question, you know._

 _Hope you're doing well._

 _Your friend,_

 _Theo_

 _P.S._

 _My father has one - a Blood Quill - shall I bring it to school with me?_

* * *

 _Dear Theo,_

 _I will trust your judgement when it comes to your father. Thank you for being so open with me about it._

 _Also, the subject of magical contracts is by no means dry! It's an extraordinarily rich subject, I'll have you know. I've already read through half of Hermione's present, and I'm more convinced than ever that an understanding of magical oaths might actually be the most valuable information available to us. The precision with which you can actually control someone's actions with some carefully crafted words is amazing - and you only need their permission! It's truly incredible. We will discuss this at more length in person._

 _I will be going to buy my school books tomorrow - I recognize this name Gilderoy Lockhart (it's all over the book list), but I'm not familiar with the author...I'm not encouraged by your comments, however._

 _I'm glad to hear you've spent some quality time with Malfoy_

 _Your friend,_

 _Harry_

 _P.S._

 _Please do._

 _P.P.S._

 _As a side note, I have reason to believe that something is going on. That's why I asked about house elves, you see...don't worry, I'll share the details in a week on the Hogwarts Express._

* * *

Your reading and reviewing is appreciated!


	26. A Real House Elf

**Disclaimer:** I don't own this.

* * *

 **Chapter 26: A _Real_ House Elf**

"I apologize, my lord."

The young man - a boy, really - was on his knees, and his voice shook as he failed to stifle the tremors wracking his body. His harsh breaths sounded hollow in the cold, cavernous room.

He chuckled softly, causing the boy to timidly look up at him with the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"You apologize? How...quaint."

He met the boy's eyes for but a moment, before he lifted his foot and stepped on his head, forcing his brow to touch the cold stone floor.

"My friends, did you hear that? He _apologizes_."

A tide of uneasy laughter washed over the room.

"My lord...please..."

The boy's voice was strained, thin and twisting.

"Please?"

"Please...have mercy..."

He chuckled again. "Mercy...what a curious thought. Mercy..."

He stepped backwards a pace, releasing the boy's head.

"Look at me."

Reluctantly, the boy lifted his eyes once again, recoiling at the sight of the malicious grin being directed at him. Indeed, there was nothing kind, nothing benevolent, nothing merciful about whatever sentiment stretched and curled his lips.

"What is it you desire?" he asked slowly, patronizingly.

"Mercy...my lord. Mercy..."

"Very well. Your lord will show you mercy..."

"Thank you, my lord, thank you -"

"...eventually. _Crucio."_

A scream tore through the boy's throat, and he relished in the sound of it, breathing deeply as dark magic boiled in the air around them, caressing his skin and burning through his veins with a delicious sort of electricity. The rush was incredible – he could feel himself becoming dizzy with pleasure, as a sweet melody buzzed in his head and sensual static danced under his skin; he felt so there, so present, so _alive._

The young man was writhing on the ground, now, and he could feel his grin widen at the sight of the fool's muscle spasms and violent twitches, punctuating his hoarse screams. There were times he actually craved the failure of his followers, just because moments like this were so...enjoyable.

However, it _was_ bad for morale. His followers didn't seem to perform quite as well after seeing their comrades being tortured into insanity...this much was obvious from past experience. And while it _was_ a treat to punish them, they had to actually get things done. If they couldn't do that, why would he put up with them in the first place?

He sighed, and then released the curse, watching curiously as the boy tried to compose himself.

"M-my lord...p-p-please...g-grant me -"

"Mercy? You already said that."

"P-please...please...please..."

"SILENCE!"

Everyone obeyed. Not even the faintest trace of breathing could be heard.

"You beg for clemency, and I, your merciful lord, shall give it to you."

"Thank you my lord, thank you -"

" _Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry's eyes snapped open and he bolted upright so quickly that he felt nausea stir in his stomach. He gripped his head in his hands.

His skin was on fire, but it was not a painful fire – it was the fervent caress of dark magic. He was light-headed, breathing heavily, and _excited_. And he hated it.

He grit his teeth, willing himself to calm down. He didn't enjoy that. He _definitely_ didn't enjoy that.

 _Delusion is a sign of insanity, Harry._

He could hear the humour in Tom's voice.

"Shut up, Tom," he hissed furiously, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shot through his forehead.

He glanced out the window – it was still dark out, but he could see a faint grey glow on the eastern horizon, soft and barely there. What day was it again? Uncle Vernon had locked him in his bedroom for three days following his visit with Hermione, which was on the 23rd, and this had forced him to switch to his nocturnal schedule (in which he would unlock his doors long after the Dursleys were asleep and go about making his meals and stretching his legs). Then he'd spent the next three days pulling weeds and chatting with garden snakes, forcing him out of his nocturnal schedule again. He tracked dirt in the house accidentally (no, really, it had nothing to do with the fact that he was tired and wanted some extra time to do his potions readings), so he'd been locked in his bedroom again for a day, but he had yet to change his schedule around so...

Was it August already?

No, it had to be...

 _Happy Birthday, Harry_

Tom's voice was malicious now, mocking, and Harry could sense the vindictiveness in it. He shivered, and he felt Tom's satisfaction at his discomfort.

Collapsing back onto his pillow, he shut his eyes forcefully. Maybe if he was lucky he could get a couple more hours of _dreamless_ sleep.

Five minutes later he sat up again. Tom's smug amusement still echoed in the back of his mind, causing him to sigh heavily. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

This was _not_ going to be a good day. That was already evident.

Sometimes he...

Well, sometimes he wished he didn't have to bother at all.

* * *

"I think we should run through the schedule one more time," Uncle Vernon said, some degree of nervousness evident in his voice.

His bloody relatives were so thick they needed a _schedule_ to entertain guests.

"We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be -?"

"In the lounge, waiting to welcome them graciously to our home."

Aunt Petunia was a lot of things, but never _gracious._

"Good, good, and Dudley?"

"I'll be waiting to open the door...May I take your coats, Mr. And Mrs. Mason?"

"They'll _love_ him!"

Honestly, he felt a bit sick now. No, seriously - his stomach was squirming at this point.

"Excellent, Dudley. And you?"

Splendid, now it was his turn.

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he said in deadpan.

"Exactly." The man took a moment to smirk viciously at him, his pudgy face turning a pleased shade of red, before he turned back to his eagerly listening wife and son. "I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight fifteen -"

 _Exactly eight fifteen_ , Harry wanted to snark.

"I'll announce dinner," his Aunt said proudly, as though she was impressed with her own ability to remember to announce dinner.

"And Dudley, you'll say -"

"May I take you through to the dining room, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?" Dudley rehersed smugly.

"My perfect little gentleman!"

Harry almost choked on air.

"And _you_?" Uncle Vernon turned to him with a nasty scowl.

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he repeated tonelessly, straightening his face and doing his best to look as witless as the rest of his...family. The very word made his skin crawl. There were times when the fact that he was related to these stupid muggles truly disgusted him.

"Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?"

"Vernon tells me you're a _wonderful_ golfer, Mr. Mason... _Do_ tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason..."

Harry doubted Aunt Petunia even knew what a wonderful golfer was. He sure didn't. He didn't even realize you could be 'wonderful' at golfing.

"Perfect...Dudley?"

"How about, 'we had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and _I_ wrote about _you'._ "

Aunt Petunia burst into tears of joy at that, embracing her son with rapturous pride.

Meanwhile, Harry's eyes were wide. That was...he was mentally speechless. Not a single intelligent thought managed to take tangible form in his brain.

The stupid muggle had broken him.

Hopefully it was only temporary.

"And you, boy?"

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he said automatically, the slightest bit of wonderment in his voice.

Uncle Vernon looked at him a bit oddly, before saying, "Too right you will!"

Now focusing on piecing back together his own sensibilities, he drowned out the rest of the conversation, repeating, "I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there" whenever necessary.

It was times like this when he really wished he could do some _real_ magic outside of school. Not just silly unlocking charms, disillusionments, and levitations. It was all so tame, all so _boring._ The cruciatus curse -

He almost slammed his head on the table. His dream was still messing with his head. He grit his teeth, suddenly aware of how Tom-ish his thoughts had been up until that point. Honestly, he didn't feel like himself at all.

After that ordeal - that impressive test of his never ending patience and longsuffering - he'd, predictably, been expected to do some last minute yard work, which he was thankful for; there was nothing like a bit of hard labour to make him feel more like himself. Tom didn't have a very happy childhood, but one thing he'd never experienced was a mile-long chore list. In fact, to the best of his knowledge, Tom had never done a day of hard labour in his life. Lucky him.

Well, maybe not. The fact that tasks like weeding or mowing the lawn were clear-cut divisions between his experiences and Tom's was enough to make Harry less averse to his more physically demanding chores. There were times when he still struggled to separate himself from the boy that haunted his dreams – in fact, there were times, like that morning, when he thought it was getting worse. More and more, his experiences were mirroring Tom's – learning magic, attending classes at Hogwarts, and even performing spells with a wand that was a brother to Tom's (which felt remarkably similar) – and it was disconcerting in some ways. Every night he witnessed a few poignant moments of his best friend's journey from being a model Hogwarts student, much like himself, to being the most feared dark lord in history, which Harry never wanted to become...and bearing witness to this journey always served as a sobering reminder of how close he was to becoming somebody he didn't want to be. He didn't want to take pleasure in hurting people – he didn't want to enjoy killing people. That wasn't Harry Potter – that was Tom Riddle, and they were not the same person. They weren't.

So these days, Harry valued every departure his life took from the template Tom had laid out in front of him; and physical exertion was a big part of this.

Tom was an extremely cerebral being. The dark lord was clever, cunning, and unmatched magically – he could defeat most of his foes while lounging casually on a cozy sofa (really, Harry could just picture it) – and so had never felt the need to play Quidditch or run, which were activities Harry was keen on enjoying. And he really did enjoy them. It was so easy, when his best friend was in his own head, to forget to really savour how it really feels to _be_ in the world. Too often, he was caught up in his own mind – where everything _really_ happened – and even his own body seemed far away, at times.

He would always remember that first time he lost control of his own body – the first time he became a being of pure spirit, without physical grounding...at least, the kind of physical grounding that makes you feel truly alive. He knew what it was like to feel far away from his own finger tips; to witness the world through a veil; to breath hollow breaths – and sometimes, knowing this didn't bother him so much, which scared him. He didn't want to relinquish control of his body. It was one of the few things his parents had given to him that he still had, and he'd die before he let that be taken away from him.

So while Harry was a rather cerebral being himself, he valued the aching of his sore muscles, the feeling of sweat dripping from his brow, and the kiss of the fresh summer breeze on his face. He savoured the frailty of the human body, because it reminded him that he was there. That's why he never complained when Aunt Petunia gave him his list of chores for the day – there was a part of him that craved exhaustion and pain. It somehow felt comfortable. When he was _there_ he couldn't be guilty, sad, restless, or lonely – he was _there_. And sometimes that's exactly where he wanted to be.

But that was not to say he did not feel immense relief when shutting himself in his room after a few hours of hard labour.

When he did so, he always removed Tom's mirror from beneath his pillow for a friendly hello.

"Happy birthday, Harry," Tom said immediately that day, holding an expression on his face that Harry believed he was supposed to interpret as encouragement, but really just came off as what it really was – Tom's haphazard attempt to put Harry in a mood that was agreeable to him.

Harry smiled at him weakly nonetheless. "Thank you, Tom."

"I'm afraid I don't have any presents for you -"

"It's really alright," he said with a little bit of a laugh. For some reason, Tom had become more insistent on things like presents in the last couple of years. Harry wasn't going to complain.

"But we can pick one up next time we're in Diagon Alley."

Harry's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Now, are you going to open the present from the mudblood?"

Harry sighed. "Her name's Hermione, Tom..."

"I am aware," Tom replied carelessly.

Harry rolled his eyes, and then reached under his bed to retrieve the two presents Hermione had given him the week before.

"Hmmm..." he mused, "Which to open first..."

One was clearly a book, and the other...well, he had no idea what to think of that one.

He settled on the one that looked like a book. After removing the bright red, glittery wrapping, he let out a gasp of excitement.

" _A Structural Analysis of Magical Contracts_ , by Eviatar Erlinger!"

He flipped through the pages excitedly. "It looks so complicated and hard and amazing!"

He glanced over at Tom, who actually looked quite impressed.

"Perhaps I don't give the mudblood enough credit."

Harry smirked at him. "No, perhaps you don't.," he said, ignoring the pain in his head. "She probably remembered the argument we had over the blood oath I took."

"Which you were a fool for taking."

"It was the only way I could ethically practice legillimency."

"Ethics," Tom scoffed.

"I wonder," Harry said thoughtfully, reverently placing the book on the bed beside him, "What's in the other package. It looks like a shoe box."

Curiously, Harry picked up the other box and cautiously unwrapped and opened it, finding a pair of headphones, a discman, and a few of CDs inside.

He blinked. "Muggle music technology," he said in surprise. He looked at the CDs. One had _Bach – Preludes and Fugues I_ written on it, and another _Bach – Preludes and Fugues II;_ the others were _Bach – Cello Suites_ parts I and II.

"What's Bach?" wondered Harry.

"A wizard who lived approximately approximately two and a half centuries ago. A world-renowned composer."

Harry blinked. "Oh, like music."

"Yes, Harry," Tom said patronizingly, "Like music."

"Oh, well that was awfully nice of her."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "I doubt she knows, though, that he was a wizard. There have not been many prominent musicians in our history, and he's even more well known in the muggle world than he is in the magical one."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Oh, so I bet this is part of her no doubt impending plot to make me like muggles, then."

"I would imagine so."

"Well, it was very nice of her anyway."

Tom looked at him blandly. "Indeed."

"Anyway, when will we next visit Diagon Alley?"

"A week or two. It depends on when you get your letter with your book list. You likely won't need any new books for most of your classes, but the Defence against the Dark Arts curriculum will no doubt be chosen by your new professor."

"Oh, right, Professor Quirrell is..."

"Dead. You killed him."

Harry hung his head, looking very ashamed at that. "I really didn't mean to. I still feel very awful about it."

Tom looked at him disdainfully. "He was a poor excuse for a substitute horcrux. Good riddance."

"Tom, that's a horrible thing to say."

"Sometimes I fall under the impression that you have forgotten that I used to make a name for myself torturing and murdering 'innocent' people. If you can really call them that," he added on darkly.

"Well, it's easy to forget. I mean, you're so nice to me," Harry said earnestly.

"And sometimes I forget how starved for affection you are."

Harry frowned. "Well, that's not a very nice thing to say."

Tom scoffed at him.

Meanwhile, Harry yawned. "I think I'll take a nap now, actually. Perhaps I can sleep through the Durselys' dinner party."

"It's probably for the best."

He stood up and closed his curtains. "Goodnight, Tom."

"It's not night, you stupid child."

* * *

When Harry woke up, there were two enormous green-ish yellow eyes staring down at him, opened impossibly wide until they were just about the size of tennis balls.

"Hello," Harry said cautiously, not moving. "My name's Harry, who are you?"

The creature, which had perhaps the largest, pointiest ears Harry had ever seen, jumped off his bed and onto the carpet, bowing so low that its long, thin nose touched the ground.

"Harry Potter!" it exclaimed, and Harry winced, hyper-aware of how jarring the small creature's voice was.

" _Muffliato_ ," he whispered performing a vague movement with his hand, hoping the spell would have at least a marginal effect even though he cast it without a wand.

In the meantime, the small creature was blubbering on, sounding quite star-struck. "...so long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir...such an honour it is..."

Harry blinked. Well that was...unexpected. "Mr. Dobby -"

"Oh, just Dobby sir. Dobby the house elf," the creature said, wringing its long, bony hands a bit.

Harry's eyes widened. He'd never met a house elf before. Tom was quite clear on the fact that Harry was _treated_ like a house elf, but he'd never actually met these creatures he was always compared to. This was a house elf? _This_ is what Tom was always comparing him to? He didn't want to insult Dobby or anything, but...he couldn't help but feel a little insulted, himself, about the comparison.

"Alright, well, Dobby, it's lovely to meet you -"

The creature looked at him with eyes filled to the brim with wonder and excitement. "Harry Potter...says...it's lovely to meet _Dobby..."_ Tears were gathering in the elf's eyes.

Harry nodded absently, still at least somewhat oblivious to the small creature's fragile mental state. "Indeed it is. Now, Dobby, may I ask why you're here?"

"Oh yes, sir," Dobby said, pulling himself together. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir...it is difficult, sir...Dobby wonders where to begin..."

"Well, why don't you sit down, and we can talk about it?"

However, his statement had the opposite of the desired effect, and the elf burst into tears

Harry could feel Tom's irritation in the back of his mind.

" _S-sit down!"_ the elf wailed, shocked into hysterics, the volume of his voice causing Harry to wince, _"Never...n-never, ever..."_

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, hoping the elf would follow suit, "I _really_ didn't mean to make you upset. It wasn't my intention to offend you."

"Offend Dobby!" the elf choked. "Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard before – like an _equal_ –"

Feeling a little horrified for the poor thing, he tried to smile weakly. "You can't have met many decent wizards, then."

Dobby shook his head. Then, all of a sudden, he leapt up onto Harry's desk and started banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"

"Wait, stop, what are you doing?" Harry cried, frantically tearing the creature away from the window.

Tom had gone from being irritated to laughing bemusedly in his mind, no doubt relishing in the pathetic creature's pain.

"Dobby had to punish himself, sir," said the house elf, who had gone slightly cross-eyed. "Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir."

"The people who...own you?"

Dobby nodded. "The family Dobby is bound to serve forever..."

"Do they know you're here?" asked Harry curiously.

Dobby shuddered. "Oh no, sir, no...Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir -"

A brutal shiver shook the elf's frame.

"But won't they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?" Harry asked with a frown, somewhat concerned with the plausibility of Dobby's plan.

"Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments..."

What horrible people, he could not help but think. Surely, the elf had its faults, but he clearly meant well. And he was rather cute, in an odd way. Yes, Dobby the house elf had most likely been divested of every last marble he ever had, but at least his evident insanity was endearing. Who could possibly wish him harm? Well, Tom did, but Tom took pleasure in everyone's pain. "Is there anything I can do? To make this whole thing easier for you?"

At that, Dobby erupted into wails of gratitude and awe.

"Please," Harry said frantically, "Please be quiet, Dobby. I'll be in a lot of trouble..."

"Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby...Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, of your goodness, but Dobby never knew..."

Harry was just very confused now. "Oh...well, I assure you, Dobby, there's nothing particularly great about me. Not yet, anyway..."

"Harry Potter is humble and modest," said Dobby reverently, his impressively large eyes nearly glowing in the dark of Harry's room. "Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Ummm..."

"Dobby heard tell," the elf continued hoarsely, "That Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago...that Harry Potter escaped yet again."

Harry nodded slowly, wondering what the elf was getting at.

"Ah, sir," the elf gasped, dabbing the wet corners of his eyes with the hem of the...grubby pillowcase-looking thing he was wearing. "Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he _does_ have to shut his ears in the oven door later, _Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts_."

"...what?"

"Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger."

Harry blinked. "Really?"

Dobby nodded. "There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year...Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!"

"May I ask what sort of terrible things are going to happen?"

Dobby made a horrible choking sound, and then started hitting his head violently against the edge of Harry's bed.

"Ok, ok," Harry said, trying to appease him. "I see, I understand. You can't say anything. It's alright, Dobby."

"...it is?"

Harry nodded. "I get it, I won't go back to Hogwarts, I promise you."

Dobby looked positively blissful, at that. "Really, sir?"

Harry nodded, trying to smile. "I'm sure my relatives will be _thrilled_ to have me around longer, and then I can go to this lovely _muggle_ school they had lined up for me..."

Ok, maybe he was laying it on a _little_ thick.

Meanwhile, Dobby seemed to have bought his little act. "Oh, Dobby is so, so pleased, sir. Dobby is so happy that Harry Potter will remain here where it's safe."

Harry nodded with feigned fervour. "Thank you so much, Dobby, for coming to warn me. I really appreciate it." And he did...the sentiment, at least.

"Oh, Dobby is so, so happy to help, sir! Dobby hopes that Harry Potter has a very pleasant evening!"

And with one last adoring look, the elf disappeared, leaving Harry sitting on his bed with a puzzled look on his face.

That was unexpected. Very unexpected.

Alas, he was too exhausted to even think about it.

Sighing, he reached under his bed and pulled out the discman from Hermione, and popped a CD in. Placing the headphones on and collapsing into his bed, he fell asleep to the lulling dialogue of Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major.

His sleep was dreamless that night.

* * *

And this marks the beginning of year 2! Wish me luck, preferably in the form of reviews and chocolate, if you can manage it.


	27. Books and Trinkets

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's changed.

Just a few responses to some reviews:

 **AN1:** Why weren't the Dursleys afraid of Harry last chapter? Well...this kind of ties in with some smaller things that I've mentioned along the way. Way, way back, Tom gave Harry some advice that I'm rather fond of, "you can only use a threat so many times before it becomes idle". Harry's been controlling his magic since the age of 7 or 8, and the Dursleys know this - they also know that Harry has consistently failed to deliver on most threats he makes, and I think they're smart enough to at least subconsciously acknowledge this. However, as Harry alluded to in his letter to Theo, they're also unintelligent enough to mistake Harry's mild-mannered behaviour for powerlessness. My impression of the Dursley household dynamics is that Harry basically fades to the background and does what he's told, until he needs something, and then makes a point of reminding the Dursleys that he can, in fact, do magic.

 **AN2:** Why does Tom claim Bach is a wizard? Because in my world, he was. This is just kind of a joke, and you shouldn't put too much thought into it. I think that Bach's music is the most magical sounding music I've heard, so that's kind of where that came from. I just thought it was a slightly amusing joke on Hermione.

 **AN3:** About my use of _muffliato_ \- Harry actually casts this every night before he goes to sleep at Hogwarts...my reasoning is that Snape taught it to Voldemort, who taught it to Harry (same deal with _sectumsempra_...but that won't come up for a while). I couldn't use _silencio,_ because that renders the target mute, and Harry still wants to be able to carry on a conversation with Dobby, and I didn't want to create a new spell, so I took some liberties in assuming that the _muffliato_ charm places a barrier around people having a conversation which causes outsiders to just hear buzzing when they get too close. Sorry for any confusion.

* * *

 **Chapter 27: Books and Trinkets**

Harry was so excited that he thought he might burst. A gruesome thought, but an appropriate one nonetheless. This was his first time in Knockturn Alley – Tom had _finally_ decided to take him along with him on one of his mysterious errands.

They were currently walking down a shadowy path under dark, looming alley walls, an unevenly cobbled street biting at their feet. Harry could not help but muse that the alley reminded him of an even more sinister, haunted version of Oliver Twist's London – a dark, grey, muted festival of oddities. The shops lining the alley's sides were gloomy, intimidating, and all rather sketchy looking, all seeming to melt in the shadows, as though they had something to hide. They probably did.

Dark red and faded green paint was peeling, windows were cracked, dust and rust consumed stone and steel – it was as though someone had gone out of their way to make the alley as creepy as possible, he could not help but think as he nearly tripped over another random object conspicuously lying in the middle of the street.

Tom never tripped. Why did Tom never trip?

His musings were startled away when Tom stopped short, causing him to do the same.

He glanced up curiously, finding himself in front of a fairly large shop, the windows dark and musty, displaying a collection of dubious looking objects from within, the old, worn sign hanging above spelling the words,

 _Borgin and Burke: Established 1863_

"Oh, I remember this place," Harry said. "You used to work here."

Tom nodded. He was wearing Miss Jenkins again, polka-dotted dress and red pea coat and everything; the woman seemed to really like Harry's cookies, and was happy to let him in when he showed up with them at her door. Harry was starting to worry, though – he didn't know how many more times they could alter her memories before her mind broke. She really was a nice lady, and even if she _was_ a bit dense, she didn't deserve to be turned into a vegetable through Tom's continued use of the memory charm on her.

"Try not to touch anything that looks deadly," Tom said wryly, and with that, he pushed the door open, leading Harry inside.

The inside of the shop looked exactly as it did in Tom's memories – very little had changed. Ominous looking trinkets and obscurely creepy objects littered the place; the walls were invisible behind the shelves that lined them, which were stacked with old books and strange what's-its and somethings. Looming cupboards and cabinets and wardrobes haunted the corners, while shelf upon shelf, case after case lined the floor.

"May I help you?" a slippery yet strained voice suddenly came from behind him, and spinning around, Harry saw an old man with stringy white hair in a dusty old suit. It was pinstriped and tattered at the corners, but it looked expensive.

When Tom met the man's eye, he immediately recoiled and then bowed deeply.

"My lord, I was not aware that -"

"None of that, Borgin. I would not have you reveal my presence."

Instantly, the man's murky blue eyes darted over to Harry, who was staring at him with undisguised fascination. Yes, he remembered this man. He was much, much older than he had been in Harry's – Tom's – memories, but it was most definitely Mr. Borgin.

Watching the shift in Mr. Borgin's attention, Tom said, "The boy is with me. He is under my protection and will be treated as such."

And with that, Mr. Borgin bowed to him too, as he stared on awkwardly.

"Now, I have business to attend to," Tom said, turning to Harry and beginning to recite what was clearly seared into his memory: "Those -" he pointed to a chest in the corner "- are bones of various magical creatures, those -" he pointed to a case close by "- are human skulls of varying ages, and those -" he pointed to a pile of books beside the counter "- are uncursed dark magic tomes. You may touch and examine those things, but nothing else. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded mutely.

"Good. I will be back. Wait here, and don't talk to anyone who comes in. If possible, stay out of sight."

And with that, Tom strode purposefully behind the front counter and disappeared into the room beyond, with Mr. Borgin following behind him.

Sighing, Harry went over to look at the human skulls. He'd never seen one up close before.

They ranged greatly in size and shape – some of them looked like they could have belonged to newborn babies, and others were so massive that they looked like they belonged to a man Hagrid's size; some of the skulls were in perfect condition, and others were cracked or partially crushed. One of the little ones in particular caught his eye – it looked like it belonged once to a child of around 1 year old; what was interesting about it, though, was that it was marked. Numbers and runes were carved into the sides, and tiny holes had been drilled into it. Cautiously, Harry picked it up, holding it up in the meager light that flowed in through the musty windows of the shop. It really was a very curious item, he could not help but muse as he turned it over in his hands

As soon as he placed the little marked one back with the others, he heard shuffling just outside the shop door, and he panicked, looking from side to side – someone was coming, and Tom said to stay out of sight (he conveniently forgot the "try" part). Taking a deep breath, he settled on stepping into a black cabinet right behind him. He realized in retrospect that it could have been cursed.

Oh well.

Seconds later, a bell clanged, and two people stepped into the shop; one of whom he immediately recognized through the veiled cracks in the cabinet he was currently inhabiting – it was Draco Malfoy. The man who followed could only be his father; he had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold grey eyes. Looking as though he was very familiar with the shop's layout, Mr. Malfoy briskly crossed the shop floor, stepping over the objects covering the ground with expert ease, glancing lazily at the items on display; once he crossed the shop, he rang the bell on the counter before turning to his son and saying,

"Touch nothing, Draco."

Harry could not help but be a little pleased that Tom trusted him more than Malfoy's father trusted his son.

Meanwhile, Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye sitting beside the case of skulls, pouted indignantly and said, "I thought you were going to buy me a present."

"I said I would buy you a racing broom," his father corrected him, drumming his fingers on the counter impatiently.

"What's the good of that if I'm not in the house team?" Malfoy groused, his voice sulky and annoyed. "Harry Potter got on the team last year. Special permission from Professor Snape and Dumbledore so he could play for the Slytherin team. He's not even that good, it's just because he's famous ...famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead ..."

Malfoy bent down to examine the case full of skulls that he himself had been looking at a moment ago. "...everyone thinks he's so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick and his perfect grades. Bloody teacher's pet, if only they knew what their precious Potter was like when he was angry..."

"You have told me this at least a dozen times already," Mr Malfoy drawled, sending a quelling look at his son, "And I would remind you that it is not...prudent...to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear. As for Mr. Potter's temper, I've told you already – ah, Mr Borgin."

Mr. Borgin had reappeared, and was now standing behind the counter.

"Mr Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again," the elderly man half mumbled, his voice even oilier than before. "Delighted – and young Master Malfoy, too – charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced –"

"I'm not buying today, Borgin, but selling."

Interesting.

"Ah, I see." The man withered a bit at the answer. "Before attending to that, then, I must finish up some other business. Boy?" he called. "Where have you gone off to?"

Oh, that was probably him, wasn't it?

Sheepishly, Harry stepped out of the cabinet.

"Potter?" Malfoy blurted out, and Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Borgin both raised an eyebrow, the latter looking pointedly at him in question.

"Well, I was told to stay out of sight, if possible," he said by way of explanation, "If you could not say anything about me ducking into a possibly cursed cabinet, I'd really, really appreciate it."

Mr. Borgin looked at him with amusement, while Malfoy continued to gape and Mr. Malfoy stared at him with undisguised curiosity.

Feeling very awkward, Harry nodded toward Malfoy and approached his father, sticking his hand out. "Harry Potter, pleased to meet you, sir." Malfoy had already 'blown his cover' so to speak, so there was no point in being rude.

Mr. Malfoy tentatively shook his hand, and Borgin spoke up again.

"Your...friend will be occupied for some time still. _She_ is dealing with a...mutual business partner."

Harry nodded, as though he understood, when really he did not.

"She asked that you wait for her at Flourish and Blotts."

Harry nodded. This he understood. "Alright, I'll be going then -"

"But before you leave," said Borgin, "I was asked to give you this, with a message – Happy Belated Birthday." The man picked up an enormous tome from underneath the counter and placed it in Harry's hands.

 _Magic Moste Evile_

Harry's eyes went almost as wide as Dobby's had been a couple of weeks earlier, his mouth falling open as he gaped shamelessly. "Is this...a pre 1857 version?"

Those were very, very rare.

Borgin raised an eyebrow. "You know about the 1857 censorship, then?"

Harry nodded avidly, eyes glimmering with glee. "I was very disappointed to find that the one at Hogwarts is from 1912. But this is... _splendid!"_ he exclaimed, his voice almost trembling with excitement, "The best birthday present ever!"

Meanwhile, both Malfoys were looking at him as if he had grown an extra set of arms and maybe another head or two on top of that.

Ignoring them, Harry opened up his red backpack and slid the book inside. "Thank you so much Mr. Borgin!"

The man raised an eyebrow. "It's not from me, but you're welcome all the same."

Harry grinned, and was about to leave, but hesitated. Instead, he walked over to the case with the skulls in it and picked up the one with the strange markings.

"How much for this?"

Mr. Borgin's thin eyebrows disappeared behind his wiry white fringe. "And why would you want to know a thing like that?"

Harry shrugged. "I kind of like it."

The old man chuckled. "For you, Mr. Potter, I'll part with it for 7 galleons."

Harry's grin returned, and after placing the skull in his backpack, he fetched the required sum out of his pocket and handed it over to Mr. Borgin.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded. "Likewise." He looked around. "I'll be going then, I guess." He made for the door, but then looked over his shoulders at the two baffled Malfoys. "Um, please pretend I was never here. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy!"

He shivered slightly as he left – it felt good to leave the musty shop...not that the air quality in Knockturn Alley was much better.

He looked from side to side, suddenly aware of the dubiousness of his surroundings, and the fact that without Tom's presence, he might actually be in danger, given his current location. This was especially evident as he caught the eye of a bedraggled wizard slouching in a crevice between two shops.

The man stared at him hungrily, and Harry grimaced, making a show of drawing his wand. Immediately, the man looked away, an indecipherable look on his face.

What odd behaviour, Harry could not help but think.

Oh, well, off to Flourish and Blotts.

* * *

Well that was...dreadful.

 _GILDEROY LOCKHART_

 _will be signing copies of his autobiography_

 _MAGICAL ME_

 _today_

 _12.30 – 4.30 pm_

Who would have thought one innocent-looking banner could warn of such great treachery?

Never before had any bookshop or library betrayed him so shamelessly.

Getting into Flourish and Blotts had been no easy task; it was positively overflowing with human clutter, mostly with preening witches of all ages. Honestly, in was ridiculous. Apparently, the man who wrote all of his Defence of the Dark Arts books (of which there were many), Gilderoy Lockhart, was signing copies of his autobiography that day. The whole thing was very annoying, and Harry was scowling the whole time he was picking up his books. He had hoped to enjoy his experience in the book shop as he always did; he had happily anticipated a casual exploration of the various titles on display, over the course of his pleasurably slow meander through the shop.

No such luck.

He was grimacing as he handed 14 galleons and 7 sickles over to the shop attendant stationed at the till.

"Sorry about this," the older boy said, "It's been like this since noon."

Harry looked at him sympathetically. "Don't apologize to me – you're the one who has to put up with this all day."

"Cameras flashing, witches squealing...I can't wait for it to be over," the boy groused, "I didn't sign up for this."

Harry smiled weakly. "Two more hours until closing."

"Thank Merlin for small mercies."

He nodded at the clerk and was about to sneak out of the store, when he saw Hermione standing near the front of the store with a group of redheads, and one thing that did not belong. Draco Malfoy.

He frowned. Sneak away or break up the impending fight...

It would be rather bad taste to just slink off, wouldn't it?

"Hermione! Ron!" he called out, pushing through the crowd toward them.

Hermione's face lit up when she saw him, and Ron's scowl turned into a grin.

"Harry!"

He grinned at them when he finally made it through the crowd, and Hermione immediately launched herself into his arms. Not really knowing what to do, he patted her awkwardly on the back.

"It's lovely to see you too Hermione," he said cautiously, not knowing if it was customary to greet someone before, during, or after a hug.

When she finally released him he smiled politely at Malfoy.

"Malfoy, fancy seeing you here," he said lightly, "I wouldn't have thought to find you in...present company."

At that, the pale boy went red in the face, and he looked like he was going to snap back, before an interruption arrived.

"Ron!" an older man with bright red hair, dusted only slightly with grey, called over the din, as he struggled over with Fred and George, who beamed and waved at him when they saw him.

"What are you doing?" the man said loudly, "It's mad in here, let's go outside."

Harry was about to introduce himself when yet another interruption showed up.

"Well, well, well – Arthur Weasley."

It was Mr. Malfoy, who'd managed to quietly make his way over to them, placing one gloved hand on his son's shoulder. He'd magically managed to retain his dignity despite their chaotic surroundings. Harry was impressed. Although...the man _was_ a Death Eater, and had no doubt seen many a battle. So maybe it really wasn't that impressive.

"Lucius," the red haired man replied in a stiff voice - the red haired man who was, apparently, Mr. Weasley - nodding coldly.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," Mr. Malfoy continued, his voice deceptively casual. Harry wasn't sure he liked where this was going. "All those raids...I hope they're paying you overtime?"

He reached into the youngest Weasley child's cauldron and extracted, from amidst the garishly bright, brand new Gilderoy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of what looked to be _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration._

"Obviously not," he said. "Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Mr. Weasley flushed, his cheeks turning a darker red than his hair. "We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy," he said pointedly.

"Clearly," Mr. Malfoy drawled, his pale eyes straying to the two adults who'd come up with Mr. Weasley to stand beside Hermione. Her parents, he supposed, who were watching the scene apprehensively. Harry couldn't blame them...he was starting to feel a little uneasy himself.

"The company you keep, Weasley...and I thought your family could sink no lower -"

Well, that was tactless. Harry disliked muggles as much as the next wizard, but he'd never say so to their faces. Apparently, Mr. Weasley thought it was rather tactless as well, because a moment later he heard the thud of metal meeting wood as a cauldron went flying; Mr Weasley was throwing himself at Mr. Malfoy with a furious scowl.

Harry could do nothing but gape as dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on their heads. Amidst the thunder there was a yell of "Get him, Dad!" from Fred or George, or both. In the meantime, a woman who was definitely Mrs Weasley was shrieking, "No, Arthur, no!". The crowd around them stampeded backwards, knocking more shelves over.

Those poor shop attendants.

Punches started flying, and Harry wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. It turned out, though, that he didn't need to do anything at all.

"That is quite enough." A sharp feminine voice cut through the chaos, and Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley were tugged apart by an invisible force.

Harry spun around to find Tom's crimson glare flickering between him and the two formerly brawling men in front of him.

Tom's – Miss Jenkin's – glossy pink lips curled in disgust. "Brawling like _muggles_ -" his gaze flickered over to the Grangers for only the slightest moment, "- in public, with children watching no less. The heads of two pureblood wizarding families. It's shameful, really." Tom turned his glare down to Harry. "I told you to stay out of trouble."

"I -" Harry began.

"Can't even follow the simplest of instructions, I'm aware. Come. We're leaving."

And with that, Tom turned on his (shoeless) heel and marched out of the shop.

Harry looked apologetically at the Malfoys, Weasleys, and Grangers.

"Who was _that_?" Ron said, eyes wide and a bright blush on his face.

Harry grimaced. "Friend of my mum's – long story – see you at school!"

And with that, he ran after Tom.

When he caught up, Tom glared at him. "You foolish, foolish boy. When you see a Malfoy and a Weasley in the same room, you walk the other way."

"I'll remember that for next time."

"See that you do."

Harry frowned. "Of course, I wouldn't have gotten in to trouble in the first place if you hadn't left me."

Tom raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "I had business to attend to."

"And when are you going to tell me about this business?"

Tom didn't bother replying. "Take my hand."

Harry obeyed, and a moment later they apparated into Miss Jenkin's living room.

Used to Tom's sudden apparitions by now, Harry only blinked. "Wait...didn't we still have things to do?"

Impatiently, Tom drew his attention to the small bag in his hand. "I don't want to be walking around London with this."

Harry frowned at the inconspicuous-looking bag. "What's that?"

Tom emptied the bag on the couch. It had contained a small tiara, a gleeming golden cup, a bejewelled locket, a ring, and a small book that looked a lot like Harry's diary. He recognized the items immediately and gaped.

"Your other horcruxes?"

Tom shook his head. "No. Replicas."

"Replicas?"

"Yes. As soon as we believe Dumbledore might have an idea of what you are, our first move will be to replace all my horcruxes before he goes looking for them. These are exact replicas – I commissioned them last year – that have been infused with my own magic and warded the same way my horcruxes are. Dumbledore won't be able to tell the difference."

Harry's eyes glimmered. "Brilliant!"

"Yes, I thought so too."

"Wait, though, if they were commissioned, that means that someone else made them, right?"

Tom quirked an eyebrow. "That _is_ what commissioned meant, last I checked."

"You trusted someone with your fake horcruxes?" Harry asked incredulously.

"It was a goblin who was interested in making some...less than legal investments. I placed him under the imperius curse to be safe."

"But...you can't keep him like that forever, right? It would have been draining your magic, all this time," Harry said, suddenly feeling a bit bad for Tom.

"That's why I killed him once he was finished."

Harry grimaced. He didn't feel bad for Tom anymore. "Anyway, are we going to replace them now?"

"No – doing so will expend a significant amount of our time and energy, and may needlessly draw attention to the locations my horcruxes are hidden in. There is also the issue of where to re-hide my horcruxes once we replace them. We will not perform the switch until it is necessary, preferably after we have the chance to inform my master soul of the change."

"So, what are we going to do with them in the meantime?"

"Hide them, here. We'll place them in inconspicuous places around Miss Jenkins's house. They are charmed to repel muggles, but I will compel her to stay away from them nonetheless."

"And what if she moves, or something?"

"Do you think me incapable of persuading a muggle to stay in one place, Harry?"

"Right. So...where do we hide them?"

Tom sat down on the couch beside his fake horcruxes.

"I'll leave that to you."

Harry's eyes bugged out. "...me? You want _me_ to hide them?"

Tom glared at him impatiently. "That's what I just said."

Harry nodded dumbly.

"Well, get to it."

Harry frowned. Where does one hide fake horcruxes? Somewhere inconspicuous, he supposed. The diary was easy – he just placed it at the back of one of Miss Jenkins's bookshelves. The others, though...they would take some thought.

Cautiously, he picked up the cup and headed toward the kitchen. Cups belong in kitchens, right? He just had to find the other cups.

Harry knew from experience that people only put cups in the cupboards _above_ the counters, not the ones below, so he wasted no time in pulling up a chair to the kitchen counter so he could climb up and start looking for the cups. After a few moments of searching he finally found the shelf with all the wine glasses. Carefully, he pulled four of them out, shoving the replica of Hufflepuff's cup to the back and replacing the wine glasses in front of it.

Having finished hiding the cup, he made his way back to the den to find Tom still sitting on the couch, reading Harry's new copy of _Magick Moste Evile_.

"I hid it behind the wine glasses," Harry commented as he picked up Slytherin's locket and Tom's family ring.

"Hmm."

Harry rolled his eyes and went off to find Miss Jenkins's bedroom, which ended up being at the end of the hall opposite to the kitchen. He knew exactly what to look for – Miss Jenkins's jewellery box. Jewellery boxes, Harry had learned while cleaning Aunt Petunia's bedroom when he was six, were where women kept their small and shiny possessions (namely, jewellery) and cigarettes they weren't supposed to be smoking. Like Aunt Petunia's jewellery box, Miss Jenkins's was filled with earrings and rings and necklaces, and Harry placed the ring and the locket at the very bottom, where they (hopefully) wouldn't be disturbed by Miss Jenkins. Satisfied with his work, Harry trotted back into the den, where Tom was still reading _his_ birthday present.

"I need to hide the diadem now," Harry said, "I don't know where to hide it, though. It's rather conspicuous, don't you think?"

Tom blatantly ignored him.

Harry huffed, picking up the diadem, freezing for a moment to relish the way the dark magic it was infused with licked at his fingers.

Where does one hide a diadem in a school teacher's house? Harry wasn't even close to sure. He pursed his lips as he entered Miss Jenkins's bedroom once again, and started searching.

He tried the closet, first, but only found more polka-dotted dresses and silky dress shirts. He tried the bed-side table too, and under the bed and the bookshelf. No luck; no ideas.

Starting to get frustrated, he turned his attention to the dresser, and began to search it top to bottom. The first drawer that he searched was full of thin, lacy clothing, which, Harry realized upon further inspection, were actually underclothes. Miss Jenkins's bras and...panties, if he understood correctly. Harry imagined that Miss Jenkins probably used this drawer regularly, so that was out of the question. The next one was filled with socks, and the one after that with shirts, and the one after that with pants.

By the time he reached the last drawer, he was starting to feel rather desperate; luckily, fifth time was the charm. When he opened the drawer, it took him a moment to realize what it was he had found. Upon closer inspection of the mass of glittery, sequined clothing shoved in the drawer, though, he realized what they were – costumes. Perfect, he thought. A diadem is just the sort of thing someone would expect to find in a costume.

When he returned to the den, he had a victorious look on his face.

"I've successfully hidden all of the horcruxes -"

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, though, before he fell to his knees, letting out a muffled shriek as he saw Miss Jenkins's form go limp on the couch.

Honestly, this is how Tom repays him for his efforts. Sometimes he felt so unappreciated.

* * *

There you go. I wasn't particularly pleased with this chapter, but it kind of contained some necessary information, so...

Anyway, off to Hogwarts again, next chapter!

Please leave me a note, if you have the time. My life depends on a consistent diet of reviews and tea.


	28. The Penned Promise

**Disclaimer:** I don't own this. I don't own anything, really. Sure, I've got a few books and some clothes to my name, but does that really count?

* * *

 **Chapter 28: The Penned Promise**

 _The Penned Promise_

 _The Penned Promise is one of the most basic of magical oaths, and is the basis of many anti-cheating and anti-plagiarism spells. This oath entails the written recording of a statement by a secret sharer along with the names of the secret keepers. The recorded statement, and any grammatical variations thereof (see Chapter 2, Section 5: Degrees of Variation), are rendered unfeasible for written reproduction by the secret keepers. The oath is nullified with the destruction of the recording device and/or the nullification of intent, detailed below._

 _The three elements of the Penned Promise are as follows:_

 _1\. The incantation:_ Nonscribere. _No wand movements necessary._

 _2\. The instrument of execution: formerly, a Blood Quill was used to execute the oath. As per the Ministry of Magic's Decree for the Banning of Dark Artifacts Part 8 Article 27, the authors of this text no longer recommend this course of action. The Nonscribere supplemental incantation is detailed in Appendix B, and is to be applied to a replacement writing utensil._

 _3\. The intent: in order for a statement to qualify as a valid secret, the secret sharer must desire the statement to be kept secret. The oath will be rendered ineffective should the secret sharer no longer wish to keep said secret._

 _Formerly, the oath was, as mentioned above, executed with a Blood Quill. The secret sharer would record the secret on a predesignated medium, and the secret keepers would sign their names underneath the secret. The incantation 'nonscribere' would finalize the oath._

 _In compliance with the Ministry of Magic's restriction of Dark Artifacts, the oath must be as of the publish date of this edition executed with a writing utensil spelled with the supplemental incantation. The spell lasts precisely two minutes..._

Harry snapped his book shut when Hermione opened the door of his compartment, slipping inside.

"Harry!"

He stood up, embracing her warmly.

Since their awkward hug in Flourish and Blotts, Harry had put some thought into proper hugging technique. He didn't have much experience with that sort of thing, so it had taken a bit of contemplation before he really felt comfortable with it – he'd even practised multiple times with his pillow. After a week of strategizing and practice, however, he thought he had it down.

"I'm so happy to see you," he said honestly as he squeezed her shoulders, "It's been a long summer."

Hermione nodded avidly. "I've missed you so much! I mean, it was nice seeing all my cousins in France, but it just wasn't the same! I had no one to chat with about spells or potions or Hogwarts..."

He smiled warmly at her, and his smile grew even wider when she gasped, noticing the book he'd placed on his seat when he rose to greet her.

"The magical oaths text!" she exclaimed, "How is it? Have you read it yet? I tried taking a look, but I'll need to do some background reading before I really understand most of it. You _must_ let me borrow it when you're finished reading it."

Harry nodded, grinning. "It's really rather brilliant! I've skimmed the whole thing, and I'm reading over it in more detail now...I'm nearly a quarter way in. A lot of it's really advanced magic, though...I think this should keep me busy for some time to come. I really can't thank you enough - I have a feeling it will really come in handy!"

His friend grinned. "Glad to hear it! Anything you're planning on trying out anytime soon?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I – oh, here he is, good."

Just at that moment, Theo opened the compartment door.

Immediately, Harry stepped over and offered his hand. "Good to see you again, Theo! I missed you!"

Theo blinked in surprise, but grasped his hand warmly a moment later. "Likewise, Harry. It's good to see you too." He glanced over at Hermione and nodded. "Granger."

She smiled, clearly glad to be acknowledged. "Nott."

As Harry sat down and Theo sat in the chair beside him, Harry spoke up. "I'd like to call the second official meeting of You-Know-What."

His two friends looked surprised at the abruptness of his comment, but nodded, and Hermione preemptively went over to lock the compartment door before sitting down across from the boys.

Smiling at her, Harry held out his right hand into the void between them, and the other two followed suit, placing their hands upon his.

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine."

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine."

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine."

Harry nodded. "I suppose you both know that I've been researching magical oaths all summer..."

"Yes," Theo drawled, "That and potions. You've done little else, or at least, that's what your letters would have me believe."

Harry smiled sheepishly. "Yes, well, I've rather enjoyed it...and potions are a necessity, really. Anyway, I would like us to conduct an experiment."

Both his companions looked at him in surprise.

"You've mastered one of the spells already?" Hermione exclaimed, unable to completely keep the envy out of her voice.

"Well, that's what we're about to find out. There's not really anything to master, though; it's really quite a simple spell, provided you have the correct...instruments." He paused. " _Muffliato."_

Responding to their puzzled looks as he stood up to close the curtains of the compartment, he said by way of explanation, "Privacy charm."

Theo frowned. "You cast that every night before you go to sleep."

"Yes, well, I do like my privacy while I'm unconscious."

Meanwhile, Hermione looked very excited. "Will you teach me?"

Harry smiled. "Sure, but another time. Right now...Theo, do you have it?"

Reluctantly, Theo nodded, and reached into his bag, pulling out a small black box. _"Lynea_ ," he said, and it snapped open, revealing a small black quill.

Hermione looked on in puzzlement. "A quill?"

Theo nodded. "It's called a Blood Quill."

"It's an illegal dark artifact," Harry put in.

Hermione's eyes snapped open wide. "Harry James Potter! I -!"

"Hermione, it's just for an experiment," Harry interrupted firmly, "All it does is use some of your blood to write something. That's literally all it does. And yes, I'm sure that's all it does. I've done my research."

"Then...why is it illegal?" she asked, frowning, "It doesn't sound all too horrible to me – it's not like you need a magical object to write in blood. A knife and regular quill could do the same, right? Is writing in blood illegal in the wizarding world or something? That's rather silly, if you ask me."

Theo snorted. "You know, Granger, the more I get to know you, the more I like you."

She scowled at him.

"It's not illegal to write in blood, or at least, I don't think so -" he looked at Theo, who shook his head "- but for some reason it's called a dark artifact. It's probably because it's technically cursed."

"So...it's illegal because of a technicality?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"Yes," Theo said, "That's the Ministry of Magic, for you."

"Anyway," Harry said, "Having one of these really simplifies the whole magical oath process. This way we don't need to waste time and magic on long incantations and complicated wand movements...foolish wand-waving, as Professor Snape might say."

Hermione nodded slowly. "That makes sense."

"And Theo was kind enough to let us borrow this."

"You can keep it," Theo offered, "Think of it as a late birthday present."

Harry's eyes widened, and he threw his arms around Theo with practised precision, while his friend went stiff in his arms. "Thank you so much!"

Theo awkwardly patted Harry on the back, and Harry could not help but be a little disappointed that the hug was still awkward even after all his practising.

"It's no problem, really. It was just collecting dust in my father's study."

"Does he know you took it?" Harry asked curiously.

"...no."

"Huh."

"Indeed."

"Anyway," Harry began, "If you're both up for it -" seeing their nods, he continued, "- I'd like to try something called a Penned Promise. Apparently, it's the basis for some anti-cheating spells and the like. The idea is that someone writes down a secret on a piece of paper, and the secret keepers sign their names underneath, and after the secret sharer says an incantation, the secret keepers are prevented from being able to write that sentence or a grammatical variation of it...like, changed around prepositions, or change in tense, introduction of adjectives and adverbs, stuff like that."

"How does it prevent you from writing something?" Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged. "Like with most similar oaths, apparently you're physically incapable of it. I figure that can be part of the experiment. Anyway, if we use the Blood Quill, the incantation is pretty simple, and we can cast it right here."

The other two nodded slowly.

"So," Theo said, "What, do we all just think of a secret to share, and take turns?"

Harry nodded, and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "You know my diary? It has something called a Protean Charm on it...I can rip out pages, and what I write on the ripped out pages appears in the diary."

Hermione gasped. "That's brilliant! When did you learn to cast that?"

"Um, well, I actually got the diary with it already cast on it...apparently it's a NEWT level charm, so a bit above my skill level..."

Hermione deflated at that. "Oh."

"I'm working on it though."

Hermione smiled hopefully.

"Anyway, we can write the secrets on this paper, and it will be transferred to my diary for safekeeping. To nullify the spell, I just have to find the right page in my diary and burn it out."

The other two nodded, leaving him feeling quite relieved. He had been hoping that neither one of them would insist on caring for the written oaths themselves, because while he trusted them, he didn't want any of his secrets at the bottom of one of their trunks.

"So...shall I go first?"

When the other two nodded eagerly, he picked up the Blood Quill and wrote:

 _Harry Potter is a parselmouth._

Trying not to wince from the sharp pain in his skull, he handed the page over to Hermione, whose jaw dropped. "You are?"

Harry nodded.

Curiously, Theo looked over at the page, and smirked smugly. "I already knew that."

Hermione scowled at him.

"But how, Harry? I thought only the descendants of Salazar Slytherin can speak parseltongue! Or, are you -?"

"Maybe," Harry said, "It's kind of hard to know, what with the time lapse, and everything. But yes, I can speak to snakes. And it's a secret, so don't go telling people...I could be in a lot of trouble if you do."

Hermione frowned. "Why?"

"Just...a lot of people would get the wrong idea, Hermione. Voldemort -"

Theo flinched.

"- was a parselmouth too, and a lot of people make incorrect assumptions about the skill. The oath will keep you from writing anything, but you have to swear you won't say anything about it either."

Her face softened. "Of course, Harry." Without hesitation, she signed her name below the page, wincing a bit at the pain.

She handed the paper and quill to Theo, who did the same and handed it to Harry.

Harry drew his wand. _"Nonscribere."_ And with that, the red-scripted promise faded into nothing.

"It's still there, well, rather, in one of the pages of my diary, now," Harry said, "A simple _revelio_ charm will reveal it, but only if I, the secret sharer, cast it. Your turn, Theo."

Theo hesitated before taking the paper and the quill, but steeling himself, he resolutely wrote down his secret.

 _Theo Nott's father, Thaddeus Nott, was a Death Eater._

Upon seeing it, Hermione gasped.

"Malfoy's father was too," Theo said defensively. "Besides, it's not like I agree with him or anything. I'm friends with the bloody Boy Who Lived, after all."

Hermione seemed satisfied with that, but seemed uneasy when it came to her turn. "I don't really have any secrets..."

Theo scowled at her. "You can't back out now, Granger."

"We won't judge," Harry said softly. "This is an exercise in trust, all of this is. If we can't trust each other, who _can_ we trust? That's the point of all this. That's the point of our pledge."

Hermione nodded, resolved, and took a deep breath as she scribbled down,

 _Hermione Granger has a crush on Cayla Martins_

Harry's eyebrows went up when he saw the statement. "The waitress? Oh, I suppose that explains...right. She's pretty...I guess."

Meanwhile, Theo scowled. "That's a muggle, isn't it? You have a crush on a _muggle?"_

Hermione looked at him, outraged. " _That's_ what you're upset over!?"

"Look, Granger, I don't care if you fancy girls. I happen to fancy girls too, and unless Harry's over here's queer, then we've all got that in common. But _muggles,_ " he scoffed.

Hermione was gaping as he signed his name.

Harry stifled a laugh as he signed his name and handed the page back to Hermione, who performed the spell.

Meanwhile, Harry took the Blood Quill back and placed it in its little black box.

"Can I change the password?" he asked curiously.

Theo nodded, and tapped the box twice. "When you're ready."

Grinning, Harry hissed, _:Open.:_

The box clicked, and he looked up to see his friends staring at him with undisguised fascination.

"Oh, it sounds _brilliant!"_ squealed Hermione. "Go on, then, say something else!"

 _:Something like this?:_

She was grinning stupidly at this point, and Theo, despite looking slightly uneasy, seemed to be quite excited by the sound as well.

"How does it work? Do the snakes just understand you?"

Harry nodded. "I don't really know how it works, though."

"Do you have to learn new words?"

Harry shook his head. "I just...know it. It's hard to explain. But it's more natural than speaking English, even. It just kind of flows."

Hermione looked incredibly happy. "Oh, you'll have to show me so much more! I want to see you talk to a real snake! Ooh, can you cast spells in parseltongue?"

"I don't know, actually. I'll have to try sometime."

Hermione nodded avidly, and he took the piece of paper from her, folding it and placing it between the pages of his diary

He hesitated before placing it in the pocket of his robe.

"I know you're putting a lot of trust in me by letting me be the one to keep it..."

"We trust you," they both said at once.

Harry smiled bashfully. "I'm honoured to have your trust, really, I am."

The other two looked a bit awkward, at his sincere confession.

Oblivious to the awkwardness of his words, he asked "Now, who wants to try breaking the oath?"

Hermione and Theo looked at each other reluctantly.

"Right," Harry said a moment later, "I guess that leaves me."

He retrieved a regular quill from his bag, and a plain piece of parchment and began to write Hermione's secret:

 _'H- '_

"Well?" Hermione asked excitedly.

"I can't do it," Harry said, amazed, "I try to move my hand to write the words, and it doesn't work - my hand just goes stiff and feels a bit numb."

Hermione's eyes were sparkling with an excitement. "Excellent!"

Theo nodded with her. "I'm impressed."

Harry nodded, satisfied. "Now, onto our second order of business – shall we finalize our plans for the year?"

The other two nodded in agreement, and Hermione spoke up first.

"I certainly think we should focus on finishing the occlumency training."

Harry smiled. "Finishing what we started – I like the sound of that. I trust you both have been practicing over the summer?"

Hermione nodded avidly, but Theo looked at them sheepishly. "Sporadically."

"It's ok, Theo, we'll be patient," Harry said kindly, "Even if you need to catch up a bit, though, by my estimates, we really only need another month or two of practising together. As long as you keep practising on your own, I think you'll both be able to say that you occlude quite effectively."

His two friends looked very pleased, and Hermione had retrieved a notebook and was beginning to write things down.

"So, by November, you think?"

Harry nodded.

"And on the subject of meditating," Theo spoke up, "I was thinking it might be worthwhile to look at researching human transfiguration."

Hermione looked excited at that. "You mean, to become animagi?"

"Precisely. From what I know, meditation is a big part of the early stages. And I've heard it can take years, so why not start early?"

"That could be fun," Harry said thoughtfully. "We should start that right after we finish working on our occlumency together. Hermione, do you think you could do a bit of research ahead of time?"

She grinned. "Of course!"

"Also," Harry said, "I have a list of spells I want to teach you, and...we should continue duelling practice...at least once a week, I should think."

The other two nodded.

"I'll join you," Hermione said, "But on the condition that you do more than blow each other up. Honestly, it's ridiculous. You say you want to learn dark magic, but practically all you've done is learn how to make things explode!"

Theo grinned, and Harry looked bashful, yet thoughtful.

"I have a couple of bone-breaking curses -"

"Not that you need those," Theo snarked.

"- and slashing curses on my list, a couple of de-fingering curses too," he said contemplatively.

His friends looked a bit green at that.

"But," he ammended, "We probably shouldn't use those in duels."

"That's probably for the best," Theo said with a slight shiver.

"Where did you even get spells like that?" Hermione asked with a frown, "That's definitely not in any of our school books."

Harry grinned subtly. "I may have gotten my hands on a copy of _Magick Moste Evile._ "

Hermione looked shocked, while Theo looked incredibly jealous.

"Harry! Isn't it illegal to own a personal copy of it?"

Harry laughed lightly. "Kind of like it's illegal to own a Blood Quill?"

Hermione grimaced.

"Seriously, though, how did you manage that?" Theo asked.

"I got it at Borgin and Burkes."

Theo gaped at him. "You've been to Borgin and Burkes?"

"Well, yes. It's quite an exciting place. I rather liked it. I hope I can return next summer."

Hermione glanced rapidly between them. "What's Borgin and Burkes?"

"Magical black market store front," Theo said casually, leaving Hermione to gape.

Meanwhile, Harry blinked. "Oh, so _that_ 's what it is."

Theo looked at him in amusement. "You didn't even know what it was?"

"Nope."

"Merlin, Harry. You really do have a deathwish."

Hermione scowled. "I agree, Harry! You shouldn't go wandering into shady places like that! It's not good for your health. We worry about you enough as it is."

Harry waved them off. "I was perfectly safe, it's fine. Oh! And I got something else too!" He reached into his bag and pulled out the skull he had purchased. "It's kind of cute, right? I named it Billy."

Theo stared at him in pure bewilderment, and something between incredulity and disgust had crawled onto Hermione's face.

"Is that a...skull?"

Harry nodded avidly. "With mysterious markings all over it. I found it in a display case at Borgin and Burkes!"

"A human skull."

"Yep!"

"A...baby skull."

"Probably, given the size."

"And...why would you buy something like that?" Hermione asked very slowly.

"Well, it's rather neat, I think. Besides, I've always wanted to meet someone named Billy - now I have!"

Hermione grimaced. "Well, yes, you can put it away now."

Harry obeyed contritely.

Theo cleared his throat, trying to dispel the awkwardness. "So, you've started reading _Magick Moste Evile,_ then?"

A look of excitement came over Harry's face. "Oh yes, and I discovered these two curses that have mysteriously similar wand movements but drastically different incantations – I'd have though it would be the opposite, because one pulls out your fingernails, and the other dissolves them. And the incantations are polar opposite! Completely different grammatical structure! Isn't that interesting?"

There was no reply.

Harry grinned sheepishly. "I'm just really interested in the interaction between wand movements and incantations in spell crafting."

Hermione was gaping at him at this point, but Theo just shook his head. "You're _so_ weird."

"...I know."

Poor Hermione looked like she might burst into tears.

"Now," Theo said abruptly, coming to Hermione's rescue, "What's this about house elves?"

Harry started. "Oh, yes, Dobby, the Malfoys' house elf, came to visit me this summer."

Theo stared at him, bewildered, while Hermione's shock turned into a frown. "What's a house elf?"

"A slave, basically," Harry said bluntly

Hermione gaped at him.

"They're little creatures, about two or three feet tall, who are bound to a wizard family – they cook and clean and stuff."

Hermione looked aghast. "And this is...common?"

"Who do you think cooks all the food at Hogwarts?" Theo asked with a raised eyebrow.

" _Slaves_ do?"

"They're not really slaves," Theo put in, "They just...don't get paid."

"That's slavery!"

"They like it, if that makes you feel any better."

"How can they _like_ it?"

Both Harry and Theo shrugged causing Hermione's face to twist into an expression of outrage.

"That's _horrible._ Horrible!"

" _Anyway,"_ Theo said, "What's this about Dobby visiting you?"

Hermione scowled at him.

"Well," Harry said delicately, "He claimed that terrible things are going to happen at Hogwarts this year."

"You, mean, more terrible than last year," Theo said humorously.

"Apparently," Harry said, causing Theo's mouth to fall open. "You _did_ say Malfoy visited you a few times this summer - and that means your fathers were visiting, right? So I was wondering, maybe they had something to talk about. I think this might be part of it...maybe?"

"Or it could be completely unrelated."

"That too."

"Well, what sort of things are going to happen?" Hermione interjected.

"Well that's the thing...he didn't really say. I just figure he overheard something. The Malfoys might have nothing to do with it, but they know someone who does, and Dobby thought it sounded dangerous enough that he needed to warn me."

Hermione scowled. "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you Harry?"

"Apparently not."

Hermione's scowl deepened.

"Now, last order of business," Harry said, eagerly changing the topic, "Names."

"Names?"

"Yes, names. Don't you think it's high time you two started calling each other by your proper names, now? What with all the covert operations and secret society and everything."

Both of his friends looked thoughtful at that.

"Theo?" Hermione tried.

"Hermione," Theo agreed.

"Harry!" Harry chirped, earning exasperated eye-rolls.

* * *

Harry smiled brightly at Hortense Rowland, who was walking past him as he sat down at the Slytherin table beside Theo.

"Congratulations on making Head Girl!" he said happily.

The brunette came to a halt and smiled back at him. "Why, thank you Harry. How was your summer?"

"Oh, terribly dull," he said, "I'm glad it's over."

The prefect looked amused at that. "You might be missing it in a few weeks' time."

Harry's smile tightened. "I doubt it."

The older girl rolled her eyes. "You stay out of trouble."

"Yes ma'am."

"Terribly dull, eh?" Terence Higgs spoke up from the other side of the table, "I hope you didn't slack off, because the rest of us were practising all summer."

Harry smiled sheepishly. "I don't own a broom, Higgs."

The other boy gaped at him. "You don't own a broom? You're the bloody Boy Who Lived! How can the Boy Who Lived, youngest seeker in a century, _not_ have his own broom?"

Harry's smile turned wry. "My guardians aren't too keen on them."

"Ooh, your mysterious guardians," Davis said as she also sat down on his left side. "Who did you say they were again?"

"I didn't."

Parkinson scoffed at him. "Come on, Potter, don't you think this 'mysterious' act is getting a bit old?"

"It's not an act," Harry said earnestly, "I just don't want to talk about it. It's really quite simple."

"Well _I_ think mysterious works for you," Greengrass put in.

Parkinson scowled. "You would."

"Maybe you should come clean, Potter," Davis said, "People might get the wrong impression. Like you have something to _hide_ -"

"Oh lay off him, will you?" Theo spoke up with a scowl. "If he's hiding something he has a good reason for it."

Davis's eyebrows went up. "You know something we don't, Theo?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would."

"Well -"

"I, personally, would rather know where Potter spends his leisure time, in the summer."

It was Draco Malfoy who spoke, drawing everyone's immensely surprised stares to him. This was the first time they'd seen him engage Harry in conversation (even if only indirectly) since last October.

"I wonder what kind of company he keeps, _what kind of places_ he visits..." Malfoy drawled with a glint in his eye.

Harry looked him in the eye, his face blank. "Oh yes, and while we're at it, we can talk about where your father's been running his errands. Selling, did he say?"

Malfoy went white at that, and he looked away, clearly realizing his mistake.

Davis sighed dramatically. "I feel like we've just witnessed some masterful blackmailing, everyone. Perhaps we owe Harry an applause."

Malfoy glared at her.

Harry laughed uneasily. "You owe me nothing of the sort. No blackmail going on here, just trying to stay out of trouble, is all."

Parkinson scoffed at him. "You? Stay out of trouble?"

Harry frowned, recalling Hermione's words. "Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Says the youngest seeker in a century," Davis pointed out, "How did that happen, again? Catching Longbottom's rememberall, was it?"

"Let's not forget the mudblood and the troll incident," Zabini said under his breath.

Parkinson scowled darkly. "Who could forget that?"

"And then," Davis said with a grin, "There was the Philosopher's Stone."

With that, Parkinson set her infamously prissy glare on Harry. "What was, that anyway, Potter? You never did explain yourself! Why in Merlin's name would you care if a stupid stone got stolen? Awfully Gryffindorish, if you ask me."

"I didn't," Harry said quietly.

"What?"

He rolled his eyes. "I didn't go after the Stone," he said, "That's the cover story Professor Dumbledore made up."

Everyone's eyes went wide.

"Cover story?" Greengrass said with relish.

Davis rose an eyebrow. "Then what were you up to?"

"Professor Quirrell," Harry said simply. "I wanted to speak with Professor Quirrell."

Everyone went silent at that, suddenly understanding the implication.

"So you weren't being brave," Parkinson finally said, "You were being stupid."

Harry smiled. "Perhaps."

"You really are an idiot, Potter," the girl continued derisively.

A moment later she was hit in the face by a spoonful of peas.

"THEO!"

Harry sighed.

* * *

"I'm surprised I don't have a headache."

"Oh?"

"I would have thought you'd be upset about my decision to come clean about the Philosopher's Stone to the Slytherins."

Tom quirked an eyebrow. "And you did it anyway."

Harry had the decency to look ashamed at that.

"Dumbledore already knows. There's no point in keeping it a secret at the expense of your reputation."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

" _However_ , don't think I've forgotten your little oath. 'Harry Potter is a parselmouth'? You stupid, stupid child."

Harry grimaced. "Theo already knew."

"But the mudblood didn't!"

"Hermione won't tell anyone, Tom."

His friend scowled at him. "And how could you possibly know that?"

"If she didn't say anything about the Dursleys, she won't say anything about this."

"How does that follow? They're completely unrelated!" his reflection hissed at him.

"That's not the point."

"Then enlighten me, Harry," Tom said sarcastically, "What _is_ the point?"

"The point is that Hermione has no reason to betray me."

"She also has no reason _not_ to betray you."

"That's not true. She values my trust."

"Your _what?"_ Tom said incredulously.

"I trust Hermione, Tom."

 _"_ She's done nothing to earn our trust!" Tom said angrily, and Harry could feel his scar starting to burn.

He rubbed his scar. "Except keeping my secrets, except being my friend."

"Neither of which should earn her your trust."

Harry frowned. "What else could I possibly ask of her?"

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Would she be willing to kill for you? Die for you?"

Harry's eyes widened, and he sputtered for a moment. "I-I don't want her to do either of those things!"

Tom stared at him, eyes cold. "A time will come, Harry, when you will require that kind of loyalty, and nothing less than that kind of loyalty should win your trust."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I don't want anyone to be killed because of me. I don't want anyone to die for me," he said quietly.

"That will change."

"Does it really have to?"

Tom's red eyes flickered. _:Yes.:_

* * *

And there you go! Remember to let me know you were here :)


	29. All the Crazy Ones

**Disclaimer:** *sigh* the usual.

* * *

 **Chapter 29: All the Crazy Ones**

Harry stared at the girl standing behind him, in front of the Slytherin table; a first year Ravenclaw with dazed blue eyes and dishwater blonde hair.

"You're...remarkably wrackspurt-free," she was saying in a soft, sparrow-like voice.

Despite her mellifluous tone, he had to frown at that - he really had no idea what it meant. "Is that...a good thing?"

"Oh, yes, quite."

Well, that was a relief.

"Oh, alright then. Thank you very much."

"You're very welcome. I'm Luna, by the way, Luna Lovegood."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Luna. I'm Harry Potter."

"Oh, I know."

He blinked. "Oh."

"Farewell, Harry Potter. May we meet again."

He blinked again. "Well, seeing as we're both Hogwarts students, I'd say that's pretty likely."

"Quite."

And with that, the girl skipped off, a dreamy smile on her face.

"Well," Theo said, swallowing a piece of bacon, "That one makes you look sane."

Harry frowned. "I am sane."

He was, wasn't he?

In response, Theo patted him on the back. "You keep telling yourself that."

Harry sighed as he placed some apple slices on his plate.

For less than two minutes was he allowed to eat in peace.

"Er, Harry?" Theo said, "You've got another one."

Curiously, Harry turned around and saw a tiny, mousey-haired boy who he'd seen trying on the Sorting Hat the night before, staring at him as though transfixed by his very presence. He was clutching what looked to be a muggle camera in his trembling hands, and the moment Harry looked at him, his face went bright red.

"A-all right, Harry? I'm – I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor – it's my first year. D'you think – would it be alright if – can I have a picture?" he said, raising the camera hopefully.

"A picture?" Harry echoed blankly.

"So I can prove I've met you," Creevey eagerly explained, edging further forwards as he gained some confidence from Harry's acknowledgement of his presence. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You Know Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead -" his eyes shamelessly swept across Harry's hairline "- and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move." Creevy then drew a shuddering breath of excitement as a shiver racked his frame, and kept on going, "It's brilliant here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you -" he looked imploringly at Harry, "- maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"

Harry glanced at Theo, who stuck his nose up in the air. "Not a chance."

Meanwhile, the girls were doing a very poor job of covertly scoffing at the boy. Parkinson might have coughed _"mudblood_ " under her breath.

Harry sighed. "I'm afraid, Creevy, that there's been a misunderstanding. There's nothing particularly special about me. Not yet, anyway."

"Your scar -"

"Was given to me when my parents were murdered. I don't particularly like it."

Creevy's face fell, at that.

"If you want a picture of someone, why don't you try Professor Dumbledore? He's got his own chocolate frog card, you know."

Creevy's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Or..." he smiled mischievously, "You know...Professor Snape has actually invented quite a few potions. He's rather famous in his own right."

Creevy's eyes went even wider. "Really?"

Harry nodded with a smile. "Don't tell him I said that, though. I'm afraid he'll be very embarrassed."

"Ok, thanks Harry!"

Harry blinked as the tiny boy ran off toward the staff table.

He turned back to the table to see a number of wicked grins. Greengrass was nearly cackling.

"You're _evil_ ," she breathed.

Davis snickered beside her. "Honestly, you're a terrible person."

Harry scowled. "Just this once...someone else can suffer for bothering me."

He looked over his shoulder to find Creevy being shooed away from the staff table by an irate Professor McGonagall. Professor Snape, in the meantime, was boring holes into the boy with his trademark death glare.

"Better be careful, Potter," Parkinson snarked, "You're starting to act like a Slytherin."

He frowned. "I _am_ a Slytherin."

"That's what _you_ think. I think this is the first time I've seen you screw with anyone, Potter."

Harry pursed his lips. "Yes, and I'm starting to feel a bit bad about it."

Parkinson made a great show of rolling her eyes, and Greengrass looked at him fiercely.

"He had it coming to him, Harry, the little twit."

Theo nodded absently "He makes you look sane too," he pointed out. "I guess this year got all the crazies."

Harry's frown deepened. "Do you really think I'm crazy?"

Theo sobered a bit, at that. "No...I'm just teasing you. You're not crazy...you're just a little...odd."

"Well _I_ think you're crazy," Parkinson said from across the table.

Theo scowled at her. "Nobody asked you, Parkinson."

"Hmph!" she said daintily, sticking her nose in the air.

Harry plopped one last grape in his mouth. "We should get going, or we'll be late for Herbology."

Greengrass scowled darkly as she rose to her feet. "I swear, if I break a nail my first day _again_..."

Harry frowned. "If you don't want them to break then you should trim them shorter, Greengrass."

Greengrass's expression did a 180 and she smiled sweetly at Harry. "Call me Daphne, Harry."

Right, she'd said that before, he just kept forgetting.

Theo smirked. "Yeah, _Daphne_ , maybe you should just trim your nails."

She scoffed at him. "That's Greengrass to you, Theo, if you're going to be an ass."

"Whatever you say, Daphne."

Daphne Greengrass hated Herbology, and was very vocal about it. Herbology wasn't Harry's favourite subject, either. Not even close, actually. Professor Sprout was a lovely woman, of course, but the subject reminded Harry a bit too much of gardening, which was fine at the Dursleys', but he wasn't too keen on doing it at Hogwarts. He had better things to do. And at least Aunt Petunia's plants never screamed at him. Still, the mandrake roots _were_ kind of cute, in their own frightening way.

Predictably, though, the lesson ended with points lost for Slytherin.

"Seven hells! My fucking nail!"

"Miss Greengrass! I will not have language like that in my class! Five points from Slytherin."

Yeah, suffice it to say Herbology wasn't what he'd been looking forward to all summer.

No, what Harry was really looking forward to was Transfiguration – the single most challenging subject taught at Hogwarts, second perhaps only to Potions.

Harry loved Transfiguration – Professor McGonagall had a lot to do with this. The woman was stern, tough, and did not tolerate nonsense, but Harry appreciated that, and he thought the Scottish transfiguration professor had a soft spot for him.

"...the theory behind this exercise is exceedingly complex – I will not be testing you on it, but I do expect you to do the readings. And speaking of complex theory, I trust you have all had the chance to look over the readings I assigned at the beginning of the summer. The first spell we are learning is a direct consequence of Thrivver's Theory of Base Animate Transfiguration and the related methods outlined in section for 4 of chapter 1. This spell, simply put, transforms beetles into buttons. Now, perhaps a demonstration is in order. Mr. Potter, I trust you have already attempted this spell?"

Harry stifled a grin. "Yes professor."

"Excellent. Why don't you demonstrate for the class?"

Like Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall liked to call on him in class, often to answer questions and demonstrate spells that they had yet to learn; unlike Professor Snape, however, she did so without the desire to trip Harry up. After a few classes the professor had taken notice of Harry's interest in her subject, and seemed quite pleased by it; she'd also noticed Harry's propensity for working ahead of the class, and Harry could swear that sometimes she called on him just to give him a chance to show off. Despite the fact that he'd never failed her, she congratulated him on every success, which made him feel very pleased. Tom never bothered to congratulate him when he expected him to succeed...well, ever, really.

"Impeccable as always, Mr. Potter. Well done. Five points to Slytherin. Now, wands out everyone. We will practice the wand movements first."

"I can't believe I'm friends with a teacher's pet," Theo whispered to him when he sat down.

Harry smiled shyly. Truth be told, he didn't mind being a teacher's pet, if it was for Professor McGonagall.

Theo frowned as he practised the wand movement. "How do you hold your wrist again?"

Harry reached over and seized Theo's hand, turning it over and bending the wrist at just the right angle.

"Like that."

"Harry, can you help me with my wrist too?" Daphne whispered, voice saccharine, behind him.

"Daphne!" Parkinson hissed at her.

"What?" He could hear the pout in the blonde girl's voice.

"Yes!" Theo whispered hoarsely beside him, having accomplished a partially successful transfiguration. A small black button with short, stubby legs was skittering over the top of his desk.

Harry was about to congratulate him, when a small explosion sounded across the classroom.

"Again, Mr. Finnegan?"

"Sorry ma'am."

* * *

As Harry looked over their schedule for the day, he vaguely registered Theo shovelling more food onto his plate.

For a Slytherin, the boy wasn't very subtle sometimes.

"So, what do we have next?"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"With Professor Lockhart," Bulstrode said dreamily beside him.

He heard Zabini scoff at her from the other side of the table.

Parkinson glared at him. "Do you have something to say, Zabini?"

Instead of answering her, he turned to Harry. "I assume you've already done the readings, Potter?"

Harry looked up from his timetable. "Yes, a couple of weeks ago."

The other boy raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Harry folded his timetable and placed it in between the pages of the fourth year potions text he had in his other hand, which was promptly plucked out of his hand by Theo.

"Eat."

Harry nodded in acquiescence, before turning back to Zabini. "I read all the assigned books, so I feel like I have a fairly solid impression of the material."

" _And_?" Zabini said impatiently.

"And it's, well, rubbish, I suppose you could say," he said as he obediently started to clean off his plate.

"Rubbish?" Parkinson nearly shrieked.

Harry swallowed the apple slice in his mouth. "Yeah, you know, rubbish - claptrap, codswallop, hogwash, nonsense..."

Zabini pointedly ignored the girls' sounds of protest and looked smugly at Harry. "What makes you say that?"

"They're children's books, not textbooks. I read them, of course, but they really weren't worth my time. I don't plan on looking at them again," he concluded simply.

Zabini smirked at him, seemingly pleased by his answer. Harry suddenly got the feeling that he'd just been used to prove a point.

Meanwhile, Bulstrode was staring at him, face stricken. "How can you say something like that?"

Harry shrugged. "Quite easily, I assure you."

"Self-important halfblood," Parkinson was muttering under her breath.

Harry sighed. "Just you wait. You'll agree. I give it a week, tops."

"Not bloody likely."

Malfoy, who was sitting beside her, was looking at her in annoyance.

"Anyway," Davis said beside him, sounding a little bit irritated herself, "Class is in five minutes – let's go."

Harry was a bit apprehensive about the whole thing, to be honest. He was fairly certain that Professor Lockhart wasn't possessed by Voldemort or anything, but just looking at the man made him feel a bit queasy. There was something about the blonde, constantly smiling professor that rubbed him the wrong way, though he wasn't quite sure why. Tom seemed to think that the man was just a fraud, and just last night had been cursing Dumbledore for hiring yet another 'incompetent fool, a veritable muggle with magic' to teach them. Harry was reserving judgment for now, but that didn't mean he wasn't worried about the whole thing.

Professor Lockhart was waiting for them when they arrived at the classroom, and once the whole class was seated, the blonde man, dressed in silk, periwinkle blue robes, cleared his throat loudly and yet delicately, and the entire classroom was hushed at once. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of _Travels with Trolls_ and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

"Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. Harry figured that they were supposed to be impressed by this. Unfortunately, it would take a bit more than a picture on a book to impress him. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League and five times winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award – but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"

He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly. Harry was not one of them.

He looked pointedly over at Parkinson, who scowled at him.

"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books – well done."

Excellent – so far, they were being appreciated for their ability to read their book list and go shopping.

"I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about – just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in..."

While he spoke, he made his way along the columns of desks, placing test papers on everyone's desks as he did. Once he finished, he returned to the front of the class and said with a flourish, "You have thirty minutes. Start – now!"

Harry looked down at his paper and started to read. He almost wished he hadn't.

 _1\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?_

 _2\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?_

 _3\. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?_

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

 _54\. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?_

Now, Harry was faced with an impossible decision, here. Would he sink to the level of answering these inane questions, with the answers that had been unfortunately burned into his memory? Or would he have a bit of self respect, and refuse to participate in this rubbish? His perfect record or his self-respect? In the end, he decided on a mixture of the two.

 _1\. Professor Lockhart's favourite colour is Lilac._

 _2\. If I wrote it down, it wouldn't be secret. I believe writing down other people's secrets is morally questionable, and therefore I'll refrain from doing so out of respect for Professor Lockhart._

 _3\. Accepting a teaching post at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

All the way down to:

 _54\. Gilderoy Lockhart was born January 26, 1964 and desires what everyone doe; happiness. I think that happiness would be an ideal gift for anyone._

This way...well, he probably wouldn't fail, but he still was not stooping quite as low as was possible.

Half an hour later, Professor Lockhart collected in the papers and sat down at his desk, crossing his legs as he began to rifle through the written tests.

"Tut, tut – hardly any of you remembered that my favourite colour is lilac. I say so in _Year with a Yeti._ And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully – I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples -"

Harry almost snorted at that. Yes, that was likely. He could feel Tom scoffing in the back of his mind.

"- though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky!" The blonde man gave them another roguish wink.

So their professor was a ditz _and_ an alcoholic.

Harry glanced around the classroom. Theo was staring at the Professor with a glint in his eye that could only be interpreted as horror by one who knew him well. In fact, all the male Slytherins were staring at him with some degree of disgust, though most of them were doing a good job of tempering it. The girls, however, seemed unfazed. The Gryffindors were not doing so well, though. Ron was now staring at Lockhart with an unmistakable expression of disbelief on his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in the front of the classroom, were shaking with silent laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention, and gave a start when he mentioned her name.

"...but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions – good girl! In fact -" he flipped her paper over, "- full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"

Hermione raised a trembling hand. Meanwhile, Harry looked on in abject horror. How could Hermione Granger, the most reasonable, clever witch he'd ever met, be taken in by this...buffoon? What sort of dark magic was this? For a dunderheaded ditz to so easily deceive every witch in the room...how was it possible? Surely they weren't all stupid...he knew that wasn't true. Some sort of ephemeral confundus charm that only worked on females?

"Excellent!" beamed Lockhart. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so, to business..."

Finally.

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it. "Now – be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look at the cage.

Professor Lockhart placed a hand on the cover.

Thomas and Finnigan had stopped laughing now, and Neville was cowering in his front-row seat. His fellow Slytherin boys looked mildly amused and somewhat interested at this point.

"I must ask you not to scream," their professor whispered in a low voice. "It might provoke them."

As the whole class (well, half the class) held its breath, Professor Lockhart whipped off the cover with a flourish.

"Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."

Malfoy looked like he was having a lot of trouble not making a sound, but Finnigan couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter which even Professor Lockhart couldn't mistake for a shriek of terror.

"Yes?" He smiled at the boy, his smile looking somewhat strained.

"Well, they're not – they're not very – dangerous, are they?" Finnigan choked out.

"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Finnigan. "Devilishly tricky little blighters they can be!"

The pixies were a bright blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a crowd of angry mice arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and pulling bizarre faces at the people nearest to them.

"Right then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!'

Harry didn't have time to react before the idiot at the front of the room opened the cage.

It was dreadful. Absolutely dreadful.

The pixies shot in every direction like rockets on New Years eve. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air, while several others shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreak havoc on their innocent classroom, which really hadn't done anything wrong. The poor thing was being practically ripped to shreds. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and test papers, tore pictures from the walls, knocked the waste bin over, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class had crawled under their desks while poor Neville swung from the candelabra in the ceiling.

"Come on now, round them up, round them up, they're only pixies," Professor Lockhart shouted merrily.

Harry scowled viciously.

Oblivious to his glare, the professor rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand and bellowed, _"Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"_

Predictably, the spell had absolutely no effect, and one of the pixies proceeded to seize Lockhart's wand and threw it out of the window, to boot. Disarmed by a pixie, Professor Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the candelabra gave way. Then, thank all that is holy, the bell rang and there was a mad rush towards the exit.

Ron Weasley decisively slammed the door shut behind him once everyone had managed to escape.

"Can you believe him?" the redhead roared.

"He just wants to give us some hands-on experience," said Hermione snippily, nearly causing Harry to fall over in horror.

"Hermione, he didn't have a clue what he was doing," Harry tried.

"Rubbish," Hermione retorted. "You've read his books – look at all those amazing things he's done..."

Harry nearly gaped – Pansy Parkinson was nodding in agreement.

"He says he's done," Ron muttered.

And as much as his fellow Slytherins disliked Ron, he knew they were all agreeing. Well, all the males were. Greengr-Daphne, at the very least, looked conflicted.

Meanwhile, Harry could not quite keep the scowl off his face. "Did it at all occur to you that his books are exactly what they look like?"

"And what's that?"

"Fiction."

Hermione glared at him, along with the other girls in the group. "You're just jealous he didn't complement your work in class!"

That might have been the first time Parkinson was truly happy about Hermione beating Harry at anything.

Harry grimaced, and could not help but feel a bit disappointed at her response. "Is that really what you think, Hermione?"

She faltered a bit, at that.

Harry sighed and turned to the boys standing behind him. "Well, I've been thoroughly traumatized. I'll be in the library for the next 3 hours, if anyone needs me."

And with that, he marched off, eager to restore some order back into his life.

"Wait!" he heard Theo calling as he ran after him. "I'll come with!"

Harry blinked in surprise. "...ok."

"Can you believe that man?" Theo was saying as he fell into step with Harry, "Unleashing a cage full of pixies! What did he expect us to do with them anyway?"

Harry shrugged. "I honestly doubt he thought through it that far."

Theo scoffed. "Incompetent. Even worse than Quirrell."

"Well, Professor Quirrell wasn't actually incompetent – he was just pretending to be."

"You think?"

"Oh, definitely – you should have seen him down in the dungeons – he made a fine villain, actually."

"Huh – you don't say."

"Oh, I do indeed."

At that moment, a flash of red flew past them, running into Harry and causing a pile of books to tumble down to his feet.

Once he'd steadied himself, Harry looked down to find the youngest Weasley child shakily rising to her feet, hair bright red and frazzled. He reached down to pick up her books.

"Ginny Weasley, right? Ron's sister?"

Her eyes were wide and she was staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

"It's nice to -"

He paused when he noticed one of the books she had dropped – a ratty old diary that looked suspiciously like his own...suspiciously like Tom's replica.

He frowned. "Where...did you get that diary? It looks an awful lot like one I have."

At that, she paled drastically, ripping the book out of his hands and running off.

"I'm telling you," Theo said beside him, "This year got all the crazy ones."

Harry tried not to show his discomfort. "Yeah, you may be right."

Thankfully, the rest of the walk to the library passed without incident. Once they got there, Theo immediately turned to Harry.

"So, what are we looking for?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know yet. All I know is that if I read anymore potions my brain is going to either shrivel up or spontaneously combust."

"Fair enough. Any ideas?"

"Well...next year we choose electives...perhaps we should do some research concerning what we plan on taking...?"

"I've heard Divination is an easy O," Theo commented as he followed Harry into the stacks.

"And _definitely_ I won't be taking it."

"What? Why?"

Harry scowled. "Because it's complete nonsense. And if you have any sense at all you won't take it either."

Theo's eyebrows rose. "Alright then. I take it you're planning on Ancient Runes and Arithmancy."

Harry nodded. "You should at the very least take Ancient Runes as well. It's a crucial ingredient in studying fields like warding or spell crafting -" He paused, and then chuckled a bit. "Ingredients...I really have been reading too much Potions."

Theo rolled his eyes, before squinting and reaching to a shelf far above Harry's head.

 _A Broad Introduction to Runology (with emphasis on Norse, Greek, Hebrew, and Sanskrit)_

Harry's eyes sparkled as he took the book out of Theo's hand.

"See?" Theo said with a smirk, "This is why you have to eat more. You need to grow big and tall so you can find the books meant for upper years."

Harry scowled at him. "You're not very subtle."

"I'm not trying to be."

"Hmm." He brushed passed Theo sweeping down another aisle.

* * *

"I have a bad feeling about it," Harry said into Tom's mirror.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

"Ginny Weasley's diary. It...looked an awful lot like yours. It was...eerie."

Tom's eyes glinted. "Maybe it is mine."

Harry frowned. "I think I would have known if it was a horcrux."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "It's very old, and has been dormant for a very long time. It's probably quite weak."

"You think it would be so weak it wouldn't even register as another horcrux?"

"You've never reacted to the horcrux in the Room of Hidden Things."

"Wait! There's a horcrux in there?"

"Ravenclaw's lost diadem. It's hiding in there somewhere. It has been for the last 40 years."

"Huh...so...I might not be able to feel horcruxes that haven't had any human contact for several decades."

"Perhaps. It's also possible that the shock from your encounter with my master soul left you temporarily less sensitive to my other horcruxes."

"Then how do I know if the diary is actually your horcrux?"

Tom smirked. "Give it a few weeks. My younger self had a fairly one-track mind."

Harry paled at that. "You think...he'd open the Chamber of Secrets?"

"Oh, there is no doubt in my mind. If Ginny Weasley is in possession of my old diary, the Chamber of Secrets _will_ be opened in due time."

"And then what?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Well, we sit back and enjoy the show, I suppose."

Harry grimaced, his stomach squirming.

* * *

Cue ominous music.

Hope you enjoyed reading! Remember to let me know :)


	30. Incident Number Two

**Disclaimer:** Still not owning this. Especially not those parts that closely follow _The Chamber of Secrets._

 **AN:** In case anyone gets confused, I _did_ alter the timing here a bit; the Gryffindor Quidditch practice which the Slytherins interrupt takes place on Halloween afternoon.

* * *

 **Chapter 30: Incident Number Two**

Harry stared on awkwardly as Wood and Flint argued.

"Flint!" Wood bellowed at the Slytherin team captain. "This is our practice time! We booked the pitch specially! You can clear off now!"

"Plenty of room for all of us on this fine Saturday afternoon, Wood."

Harry sighed. This was the part of Quidditch that he hated. The competitiveness; the testosterone. It was just so...tedious. He had to feel a bit bad for the three girls on the Gryffindor team, what with all the male bravado they had to put up with. The Slytherin girls were constantly scoffing at the boys (well, the boys they didn't fancy, anyway), as though they were offended by their very existence – Harry couldn't imagine what Pansy Parkinson would be like if she had to participate in Quidditch practice. He shivered at the thought.

"I booked it!"

"Ah," Flint said smugly, "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape." He held up the note, flourishing it dramatically. "'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practise today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to train their new Chaser'."

"You've got a new Chaser?" Wood asked, frowning. "Where?"

In response, Draco Malfoy sauntered pompously up to the much larger Gryffindor captain with his chin up and a smug smirk on his face.

"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" Fred Weasley said warily, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint, as he and Malfoy grinned at each other conspiratorially. Several other players smirked along with them. Harry didn't smile. He resisted groaning out loud, though. This was going to turn out so well.

"Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."

Flint proudly held out his broomstick, and gestured to the others. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words 'Nimbus Two Thousand and One' graced the hands of the Slytherin team. Harry was honestly surprised that Mr. Malfoy had bought him a broom too, considering that he'd broken his son's leg last year. Actually, a year ago to date. It was Halloween, and the three o'clock air was crisp and tasting just a little bit bitter, perhaps owing to present company.

"Very latest model. Only came out last month," Flint was drawling carelessly, flicking a nonexistent speck of dust from the end of his broom. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps," he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives, "Sweeps the board with them."

It was getting really hard to not smother his face in his hands shamefully, and the more uncomfortable Harry got, the more Malfoy smirked. At this point he was smirking so broadly his grey eyes were reduced to slits.

"Oh look," Flint commented suddenly, glancing to their right. "A pitch invasion."

Sure enough, Ron and Hermione (who'd no doubt been watching Ron's brothers practice) were traipsing over the field to see what was going on.

"What's happening?" Ron asked his brothers, glancing at Harry. "Why aren't you playing? And what's _he_ doing here?" He was looking at Malfoy now, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes with a scowl.

"I'm the new Slytherin Chaser, Weasley," Malfoy returned self-importantly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team."

Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb-looking broomsticks in front of him.

"Good, aren't they?" Malfoy said. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives, I expect a museum would bid for them."

Flint, Pucey, and Bole chuckled quite loudly at that.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," Hermione retorted sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

The self-satisfied smirk on Malfoy's face flickered away. "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat at her nastily.

Excellent, just excellent. Just what they needed.

Predictably, there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him, while one of the Gryffindor girls shrieked, "How dare you!"

Meanwhile, with a furious look on his face, Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" as he pointed it fiercely under Flint's arm at Malfoy's face. "Eat -"

Immediately, Harry moved, panic fluttering in his chest as he rushed over to Ron and seized his wrist tightly with his hand.

The red-head looked at him with betrayal in his eyes.

Harry glanced over at Hermione, who was just looking rather puzzled and worried. Good, he thought to himself, she didn't know.

"Hexing him won't help anything, Ron," Harry said. "You're just going to start a fight – someone could get hurt...like Hermione." He narrowed his eyes at Malfoy, who had paled a few shades. "You don't have to worry about it," he said lowly, "I'll talk to Malfoy later. We'll have a _nice long chat._ "

The Slytherin team, who still remembered Harry's display in the Common Room a year ago, was silent, and Higgs sent a pitying look Malfoy's way, while the blonde boy all but cowered behind Flint.

The Gryffindors obviously didn't know what was happening, but reading the atmosphere, they stayed silent as well.

Ron nodded curtly.

Pleased that he had successfully diffused the situation, Harry let go of Ron's wrist and walked over to Hermione, pulling her into an embrace.

"Mudblood," he said loudly, "Means dirty blood. It's a vile, unkind term for muggleborn witches and wizards; a word that's tossed around far too much in my House. Malfoy was wrong to call you that, especially to your face. It was uncouth, cruel, and in poor taste, and I apologize on his behalf."

With that, he abruptly turned on his heel. "Flint, I don't need to be here for Malfoy's training, so I'm going to head back to the dungeons...and wait for you there."

Flint quirked an eyebrow, looking very amused. "Whatever you say, Potter."

Harry nodded curtly and walked off, face pulled into a dark scowl.

Stupid, cruel Malfoy, running his stupid, cruel mouth off. He-

"Harry! Harry!" he heard Hermione calling from behind him.

He slowed his pace so she could catch up with him.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly. "Thanks for stopping Ron, from doing something stupid."

Since their argument on the first day of classes, they'd made up, and agreed to disagree on the subject of Gilderoy Lockhart.

In the beginning, Harry had been worried that their unpleasant exchange outside the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom would put a damper on their plans. After all, Hermione really hadn't seemed too pleased with him, and he had been rather disappointed in her. However, after several days of curt, distant greetings and glares mingled with pleading looks, Theo had dragged them both into the Room of Requirement.

"I'm going to the kitchens to fetch some hot chocolate. By the time I get back, this -" he made a disgusted gesture toward them "- had better be fixed."

They'd wasted a good minute and a half glowering at each other, before Harry had spoken up.

"I don't say sorry for things I'm not sorry for."

"He's our _professor,_ " Hermione had hissed out in response.

"Like Quirrell? Remember him?"

Hermione had faltered at that. "This is different, Harry! You've read the books, you know all the amazing things he'd done -"

"I don't believe the books," Harry had interrupted. "Books can lie."

Hermione had looked aghast at the prospect.

"Look...we're clearly not going to agree on this. You like Professor Lockhart, I don't. Can that just be the end of it?"

She had hesitated, but had eventually offered him a small smile. "Maybe that's for the best."

And that was the end of it; when all was said and done, the two best friends weren't able to stay upset at each other, and the third official meeting of You-Know-What went exactly as planned. They'd successfully compiled a list of spells to learn and established a schedule for weekly meetings – one for occlumency, and one for dueling. There was even some talk of putting together some potions recipes to experiment with. All in all, things were going well.

"Harry?"

Drawn out of his musings by the concerned tone of Hermione's voice, he looked at her sharply. "I would have let him do it, if I thought it wouldn't have started a full-on fight."

Hermione frowned at him. "Was it really so bad? What Malfoy said?"

Harry nodded jerkily. "It's one of the most unkind things a witch or wizard can say to another witch or wizard."

"...oh."

"Blood matters in our world, Hermione, especially to people like the Malfoys. Him saying your blood is tainted is one of the greatest disrespects he could pay you," Harry said harshly.

Hermione sighed shakily. "I think I understand...I think."

Harry doubted it, but nodded absently nonetheless, his eyes far away.

"But Harry," Hermione began, "You can't hurt him."

He started. "Who?"

"Malfoy."

Harry could feel his entire face twitch.

"I know you're angry, I can tell. I..." She paused. "Well, I've never seen you like this, Harry," she said, "And I figure this must be you, angry...but I can't let you hurt him, because of me."

"He's not allowed to say things like that, Hermione. He's not allowed to insult you to your face, especially not in front of me. It was incredibly stupid of him, incredibly..." He drew a shuddering breath. "If you understood what he said, Hermione, you'd be hurt by it. You're my friend. I can't just let you be hurt, right in front of me."

"Harry, I'm not hurt," she said unconvincingly, "I know that people like Malfoy look down on me, because I'm muggleborn. I already knew that..."

"That doesn't make it ok!" he hissed. "You're one of the most brilliant witches he'll ever meet, and he owes you his _respect_."

Hermione didn't really know what to say to that. "Just promise me you won't hurt him. Please Harry, please."

"...fine."

Hurt was such a vague term, after all. He could do a lot of things to Draco Malfoy without _hurting_ him.

"Maybe you should go for a walk, or read a book – cool off a bit before you see him again."

Harry sighed, knowing that, about that, she was right.

"I know...I'll go do that. I'll talk to you later."

* * *

 _Petrificus Totalus_

Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy and wordlessly cast the body-bind curse on him as soon as the blonde boy entered their dorm room, listening with no small sense of satisfaction to the thud of Malfoy's stiff body hitting the stone floor.

Hopping off his bed, he went to close the door behind him, catching Marcus Flint's eye down the hall as he did. The older boy looked very amused.

"Let me know if you need help hiding the body," the older boy called cheerfully down the hall.

He raised an eyebrow as he shoved the door shut. Then, looking down at Malfoy, he sighed.

" _Wingardium Leviosa."_

After levitating the boy onto his own bed, Harry turned around to stare at him indecisively for a few moments.

He sighed again.

"Stay put. I still need some time to calm down."

And with that, he walked back over to his bed, picking up _A Structural Analysis of Magical Contracts_ as he sat down, and re-finding his place in Chapter 6.

 _Chapter 6: Circumventing Contracts_

 _It is possible, in some cases, to circumvent the terms of a magical contract. This could be called, in layman's terms, the 'art of manipulating loopholes'. In this section we will discuss the definition of a point of circumvention, the difference between limitations in scope and ambiguity, and methods for locating, exploiting, and repairing points of circumvention._

 _Points of Circumvention_

 _There are two angles from which we will consider the concept of a point of circumvention; linguistics and spell-crafting._

 _When constructing a magical contract, grammatical and etymological precision are of the utmost importance. Even the subtlest of adjustments can dramatically change the nature of a contract. This fact demands that we choose our tools carefully. For instance, certain contracts are by necessity constructed in Latin, owing the the precise nature of the language's grammatical structure, while others are actually better served by more grammatically ambiguous English incantations..._

* * *

It was about 2 hours later when Harry finally closed his book. He looked over at Malfoy.

"Sorry about the wait," he said as he stood up, and walked to the other's bed, sitting down beside him with a pensive look on his face.

"Actually, I'm not sorry at all. You don't deserve an apology from me, not this time." He stared into Malfoy's grey eyes, looking for traces of fear or anger. They were there, much to his (only barely guilty) satisfaction.

"I was pretty angry earlier, to be honest," Harry said slowly, "In retrospect, though, it's good I had the chance to cool off before talking to you. Hermione insists that I don't hurt you. You owe a lot to her, you know...including an apology, which I fully expect you to deliver with the utmost sincerity. If you don't...well, what Hermione doesn't know won't hurt her.

"I'm going to be honest with you - I don't want to be angry with you, Malfoy. I don't like the way things are between us, and despite the fact that you're an immature, selfish prat, I would have liked to have been your friend. Friends are a valuable commodity, after all. Is it too late for that? I really don't know. I'm still kind of new to all this...

"When we met...I lied to you, I know. I just...didn't want people to know who I was just yet. I wanted get my first look at Hogwarts as just some first year – not as the famous Boy Who Lived. I didn't grow up famous, you see. I...wasn't sure how to deal with it. So I lied. It was the simplest choice, at the time. It wasn't disrespect. I just didn't trust you and Ron to treat me like a regular Hogwarts student if you knew who I was. It wasn't complicated, I just didn't trust you...and in the end, you proved me right. You proved that I couldn't trust you to be patient and thoughtful. You were petty and cruel, Malfoy. I don't like you. But I never wanted to hurt you.

"Last Halloween was...an accident. I'd nearly been killed by a troll, and had had a...frustrating discussion with Madame Pomfrey, and I took out my frustration on you. That was wrong of me. That's why I fixed your leg and apologized. Because I was wrong.

"But this time...I _want_ to hurt you. I want to see you suffer for what you said to Hermione. She's my friend, you see. I think she's brilliant, and...I care about her. She deserves respect and kindness, not the disdain and cruelty you showed her. You lot...you, Parkinson, Zabini...you call her a mudblood all the time, and I'm not going to go around telling you how to speak. That's not my right or my responsibility. It _is_ my responsibility to make sure she's treated with respect, though. She's my friend, and I can't have people calling her terrible things to her face, right in front of me. I can't watch her be hurt and do nothing.

"That's why I'm giving you a warning. I'm not going to do anything, this time, because...well, because I'm a pretty decent person, I'd say." Well, compared to Malfoy, anyway. "And like I said, Hermione practically begged me not to do anything – _begged me_ , Malfoy. Because I respect her, I'm listening, this time...but if you speak to her like that again...well, like I said, what she doesn't know won't hurt her...and you've seen my copy of _Magic Moste Evile_. I trust you're smart enough to know that it's not just for decoration. I'll curse you, Malfoy. It won't leave a mark, but it will hurt, I can promise you that. So...don't hurt my friends. Hermione and Theo...I care about them. Even Ron, Fred, George, Terry, and Michael...they're off limits. I really hope you understand. Because if you don't...well, that will be very unfortunate for you indeed."

He looked Malfoy in the eye.

"I really don't like hurting people."

He stood up, and pointed his wand at Malfoy. _"Finite."_

Malfoy gasped, but didn't move; he stared at him, still frozen.

"The Halloween Feast will have already started...a while ago, actually...we should get going."

Malfoy nodded mutely, and followed him cautiously out of the room.

Malfoy was silent beside him as they walked to the Halloween feast. Harry didn't blame him – he didn't think he'd have much to say were he in the other boy's position either. Harry didn't really know what to say either, so he kept quiet as well; suffice it to say he was looking forward to the Halloween feast – Theo would be there to sweep all the awkwardness under the proverbial rug, as usual.

Yes, the feast would be good. Parkinson would snap at them for being late, Bulstrode will look at them with concern, and Davis would ask questions – Zabini would pretend not to care, but subtly ask about it later, and Daphne...she'd make one of those faces Harry didn't understand.

Hortense would look at him with a raised eyebrow, rather pointedly, Flint would crack a joke and would be hit over the head by Rosier; Higgs would try to talk about Quidditch, but would be ultimately ignored in favour of everyone's favourite gossip topic – Harry himself. Theo would stick up for him, shooing away the questions and putting down criticisms. Meanwhile, he'd sit there quietly, awkwardly, enjoying every moment of it.

He smiled, caught up in the hypothetical scenario his mind had cooked up...but then he heard it.

" _...rip...tear...kill..."_

It was a cold, thin voice, a sinister hiss. He started, stumbling to a halt and then looking around. No one was there.

" _...rip...tear...kill..."_

The walls, he realized, it was coming from the walls. Running over to the side of the passageway they were in, he pressed his ear to the clammy stone wall.

"P-Potter, what're you –?"

He looked at Malfoy, who seemed exceedingly puzzled, and a little disturbed.

"Didn't you hear -?"

The words died in his mouth as it all clicked into place.

A voice. That only he could hear. In the walls.

" _...soo hungry...for so long..."_

He stifled a shiver.

"...Potter...?"

"I..." His mouth was suddenly dry.

" _...kill...time to kill..."_

"I've got to go," he said, his voice only tenuously even, "...go do something." He looked at Malfoy sharply. "Go to the feast, and tell Theo not to come looking for me."

And with that he spun on his heel and stalked off, and once he had rounded a corner, he sped urgently toward the voice, which was growing fainter; Harry was sure it was moving away – moving upwards. His heart leapt in his chest. It was making its way upward through the walls. As it grew further and further away, he began to run, up the stairs, into the Entrance Hall, following the sound through the walls.

No, through the pipes.

If Tom's younger self had opened the Chamber of Secrets...maybe...maybe, if he got there in time, he could do _something_...damage control, that's what Tom would call it, right?

Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice:

" _...I smell blood...I SMELL BLOOD!"_

His stomach lurched as he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps. If the basilisk had attacked someone, an investigation would surely be launched, and if the diary was found...

Harry sped across the second floor, not stopping until he'd nearly made a full circle, finding himself in the deserted passage branching out from the one he'd started looked around - and he could have sworn that, for a moment, his heart stopped.

He approached, slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering an ominous crimson in the flickering golden light cast by the fire dancing in the surrounding torches.

 _THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE_

He stared on, stunned - first out of fear, and then out of exasperation.

Of _course_ he had to go and bloody _announce_ it.

"The Chamber of Secrets..."

Harry spun around, going cold when he found Malfoy standing behind him.

He didn't know whether to be terrified or enraged, so he just stared at Malfoy blankly.

"What's that thing – hanging underneath?" Malfoy suddenly asked uneasily, a slight quiver in his voice.

Harry turned back to the wall, and edging just a little nearer, he recognized the strangely shaped furry object hanging from the wall above them, and leapt backwards with a splash. Mrs Norris, Argus Filch's cat, was hanging by her tail from the nearest torch bracket. She was stiff as though frozen, her eyes wide and staring. For a few seconds, they stared on in shock, not daring to move.

Then Harry whispered, "Let's get out of here."

Malfoy nodded mutely.

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs and the loud, happy chattering of their classmates; in just a moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends. The clamour, in Harry's ears, was like raging static, and nearly deafening. However, the chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the cat hanging there, and the words ominously painted on the walls.

"What's going on here? What's going on?" Argus Filch suddenly came shouldering his way through the crowd, his signature scowl plastered across his face. But then he saw Mrs Norris and stumbled backwards, clutching his face in horror.

"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs Norris?" he shrieked. And his wide, frightened eyes fell on Harry and Malfoy. "You!" he screeched, "You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll -"

"Argus!"

Now Professor Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by the other teachers, who were no doubt leaving the feast as well. Upon seeing the wall, the elderly Headmaster stopped short – though only for a moment.

Harry didn't think he'd been able to imagine a shocked look on Albus Dumbledore's face before then.

Immediately, he swept past Harry and Malfoy and detached Mrs Norris from the torch bracket.

"Come with me, Argus," he said to Mr. Filch. "You too, Mr Potter, Mr. Malfoy.'

Professor Lockhart stepped forward eagerly. "My office is nearest, Headmaster – just upstairs – please feel free -"

"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Professor Dumbledore briskly, brushing past the babbling man at once and paying no attention to the silent crowd which parted to let them pass. Professor Lockhart, looking proud and like Christmas had come early, hurried after the Headmaster; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape, Harry and Malfoy following meekly behind.

As they entered Professor Lockhart's darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. He never knew paintings used hair rollers. He thought only Aunt Petunia did that.

The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back as the Headmaster laid Mrs Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. The tip of Professor Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs Norris's fur as he scrutinized her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his weathered fingers gently prodding and poking the bristled fur in front of him. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed, whilst Professor Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression on his face: it was as though he was trying hard not to smile; Harry realized that his Head of House was probably quite amused by the whole thing. To the best of his knowledge, Mr. Filch had been the caretaker for the last 30 years, which meant that he was around when Professor Snape went to school too...which meant the Potions Professor probably shared in most of the students' ambient dislike for the ill-mannered man.

In the meantime, Lockhart was hovering around all of them, buzzing like a bee, making suggestions.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her – probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very counter-curse that would have saved her..."

Lockhart's comments were punctuated by the unfortunate Mr. Filch's dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs Norris, his face in his hands.

Harry disliked the caretaker as much as the next person, but unlike Professor Snape, he could not help but feel a bit bad for the man. He was, especially now, incredibly pathetic.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was muttering strange words under his breath which were not quite Latin, and tapping Mrs Norris with his wand, but nothing happened.

"I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou," Professor Lockhart was saying absently, _still_ talking, "A series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography," he said, grinning to himself, a bit, "I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets which cleared the matter up at once..."

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hairnet.

After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Lockhart's chatter, the Headmaster straightened up. "She's not dead, Argus," he said softly, .

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.

"Not dead?" Filch choked out, looking through his fingers at Mrs Norris. "But why's she all – all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been petrified."

"Ah! I thought so!" said Lockhart.

Harry almost scoffed, but that would have been quite inappropriate, given the situation.

"But how, I cannot say..."

"Ask them!" Filch shrieked, turning his blotched and tear-stained face to Harry and Malfoy, who were still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"No second-year could have done this," Professor Dumbledore concluded firmly, and Harry could not help but feel a little offended that Professor Dumbledore was so ready to dismiss him. Sure, it would take some research, but he dare say he'd be able to petrify a cat as well as any basilisk, with a bit of practice. "It would take dark magic of the most advanced -"

"They did it, they did it!" Filch spat obliviously, his patchy face purpling. "You saw what they wrote on the wall!"

"Professor," Harry said softly, glancing at Professor Dumbledore. "I didn't touch her. We found her, Malfoy and I, seconds before the others showed up," he said, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the walls.

"If I might speak, Headmaster," Professor Snape commented from the shadows, and Harry suddenly felt very anxious – would his Head of House help him, or screw him over?

"Potter and Malfoy may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he really doubted it.

Harry nearly gaped at his Professor's charitable answer.

"But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor at all? Why weren't they at the Halloween feast?"

Harry resisted fidgeting. "We'd just finished Quidditch practice – Malfoy wanted to get some rest before coming to the feast, and I decided to do the same."

Professor Snape quirked an eyebrow at him. "I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful."

"It's true," Malfoy spoke out suddenly, "It was my first Quidditch practice. I was...really tired."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep a relieved smile – seasoned with a satisfied smirk – from coming over his face.

And just as well, because Professor Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze was boring into Harry's own, and Harry suddenly was made aware of the slight tugging sensation on his occlumency shields. Carefully he pushed thoughts to the forefront of his mind – chaotic thoughts of shock, fear, bewilderment, and anxiety.

The elderly man's eyes rose only slightly, and he then turned to Malfoy, and Harry suddenly realized his mistake – Malfoy probably couldn't keep the Headmaster out, and would no doubt alert the man to their lie.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," the Headmaster said suddenly, shocking Harry.

In the meantime, Mr. Filch looked absolutely furious.

"My cat has been petrified!" he shrieked, eyes wild. "I want to see some punishment!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," Professor Dumbledore replied patiently. "Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made which will revive Mrs Norris."

"I'll make it," Lockhart butted in, "I must have done it a hundred times, I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep -"

"Excuse me," Professor Snape cut in, voice frigid, "but I believe I am the Potions Master at this school."

There was a very awkward pause.

"You may go," Dumbledore said to Harry and Malfoy.

The two were silent as they left Professor Lockhart's office; neither of them said a word on the way back to the Common Room, where they were greeted with great enthusiasm.

"We didn't do anything," Harry said immediately, pushing through the crowd.

Everyone looked quite skeptical, but let them pass nonetheless, which Harry was immensely thankful for. He had to talk to Tom.

"We have to stop it," Harry said as soon as he cast the _muffliato_ charm.

Tom quirked an eyebrow, looking to be in an excellent mood. "When the fun's just beginning?"

Harry scowled. "Tom, they'll close the school! I'll have to return to the Dursleys!"

"There are some errands I've been meaning to run," Tom said carelessly.

Harry grit his teeth. "And if Professor Dumbledore catches Ginny Weasley? If he finds the diary? If he figures out what it is?"

Tom paused. "That would be very unfortunate indeed."

"I'm going to put a stop to this," Harry said firmly.

Tom sighed. "Yes, yes, that would be for the best."

"Wait, really?"

"A bit of petty amusement isn't worth our life. You are correct in your assumption that the longer my diary is left to wreak havoc on this school, the more likely it is that it will be found. And if my younger self manages to regain corporeal form..."

Harry grimaced.

"One Lord Voldemort out of our control is enough."

Harry nodded resolutely. "Couldn't agree more, Tom."

* * *

And there you have it - the Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Now review, or I'll send my pet basilisk through the interwebs to find you. Bear in mind that it smells fear.

*Note: I made some slight edits to this chapter on 10/4/2017 to make the basilisk scene more realistic, and less forced. Still not exactly artful, but it's not quite as bad.


	31. Binns, Books, and Bludgers

**Disclaimer:** I don't own this. Especially not the non-trivial amount of stuff right out of the _Chamber of Secrets._

 **AN:** On that note, I _am_ sorry. There's a lot in this chapter that differs very little from the book (refresher course, anyone?), but I felt it was a little awkward to leave it all out...plus there were a couple of notable changes.

* * *

 **Chapter 31: Binns, Books, and Bludgers**

It was Sunday, November 1st, and Harry was waiting for his friends in their designated clubroom – the Room of Requirement. It was Sunday, so they would be meeting to practice occlumency at 10 am in the Room of Hot Chocolate – but Harry had arrived a little after dawn, eager to avoid the questions that would have no doubt followed him to the breakfast table. A few strawberries and apple slices and some jam and toast were a small price to pay for a few hours of peace and quiet. He was sure Theo would have something to say about it later, but now – seated on a plush couch before a warmly fluttering fire – he was quite content to sit, read, and forget the suspicious stares that were no doubt going to follow him around for the next few weeks.

Back to square one. Again.

"Harry, are you the Heir of Slytherin?"

He hadn't even heard the door open.

When he heard Hermione's concerned voice, he froze, his book snapping shut. He looked at her with wide, startled eyes for a moment, before saying slowly, "Hermione...where is this coming from?"

"You can speak to snakes, Harry – Slytherin could too. I did some research last month, and it's something that's passed down in the same family. Genetics. People in Gryffindor think Malfoy's the one who did it, that he's the heir. But I know better – I know what you're the one descended from Slytherin. So tell me the truth, did you attack Filch's cat?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed. "Of course I didn't! I don't know who did it. Malfoy and I just stumbled across it on our way to the welcoming feast."

She frowned. "Then how did you end up in the corridor? That's not between the dungeons and the Great Hall."

"I...heard a voice," he said honestly, "Saying something about blood. It was in the walls, I think..."

Hermione looked uneasy about that.

"So we followed it, and found Mrs. Norris. She was already hanging there – the words were already on the wall. Whoever did it...it wasn't me or Malfoy. You're right...I guess I am technically the Heir of Slytherin, but it's not me who's done this. I don't know who it was – we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he concluded, quoting Professor Snape.

She nodded. "I just had to be sure, you understand. I know you wouldn't do something like that...but Malfoy would, and I thought maybe if he coerced you into -"

Harry smirked as he said, "I don't think Malfoy can coerce me into doing anything, Hermione."

She smirked back at him. "I guess you're right." She frowned. "Why were you so late to the feast anyway?"

Harry shifted uneasily on his feet. "I...may have petrified him and left him on his bed for a few hours."

"Harry!"

"He was wrong to call you a mudblood!" Harry all but growled at her. "He deserved to be punished!"

"By a teacher, maybe, but not you!"

"Look, Hermione...what's done is done. I'm sorry. I didn't even think to go to a teacher. I..." he paused, here, trying to think of the most diplomatic thing to say. "I'm used to doing these things on my own."

Hermione's face softened. "Oh, Harry...I know you meant well...but don't go around petrifying people because of me...especially not now."

Harry smiled weakly. "I'll do my best."

Hermioned sniffed. "That's all I ask."

"Anyway, I needed to ask you a favour."

"You do?"

"Yeah...I need to to talk to Ginny Weasley for me."

Hermione frowned. "About what?"

"She has this diary. An old one from 1942. I need you to...find out where she keeps it and steal it for me."

Hermione grew alarmed at that. "Steal it? Why on earth would you want to steal an 11 year old girl's diary?"

Harry hesitated. "I believe...I sensed dark magic around it. I think it might be a dark artifact, and I think I might know what it does."

Hermione frowned. "Then why don't you talk to her yourself?"

Harry shook his head. "It has to be stolen. If it is what I think it is, then she won't want to give it up, and me talking to her might scare her enough that she'll do something stupid. She already knows I've seen her with the diary, and when I asked her about it she ran off...but you're her housemate, you can talk to her when she's calm...alone...somewhere she feels safe."

"But Harry! I can't just steal a diary because you _think_ it might be some sort of dark artifact -"

"Please, Hermione," he begged, "Please. This is really, really important. It _has_ to be done."

She scowled at him. "Then explain to me what the diary is, and why it's so dangerous."

"I...can't."

"You can't," Hermione echoed him, sounding very unimpressed.

"I will," Harry said hastily, "But only after I'm convinced you're skilled enough at occlumency, or I have another way to ensure that no one can pick it out of your head."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You're that concerned about someone finding out?"

Harry nodded slowly. "This is really, really important Hermione. I wish I could give you more...but I can't right now."

She nodded back at him. "...alright. I'll do it."

"...you will?"

"If it's really that important to you."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Excellent!"

"Now," Hermione said, "Where's Theo?"

At that moment, the doors opened once again, Theo emerging this time.

"You skipped breakfast," he greeted disapprovingly, then paused, reading the atmosphere.

"We were just talking about what happened last night," Harry said by way of explanation.

Theo nodded slowly.

"Do _you_ know anything about what happened last night?" Hermione asked.

"Nope, I'm just as confused as everyone else," he said. He sat down across from them. "Although, were you telling the truth, Harry? Do you really not know anything? I mean, _you_ 're technically the Heir of Slytherin aren't you?"

"That's what I was just telling Hermione – I have no idea who was behind it. Whoever it was had already gone by the time Malfoy and I got there."

"Speaking of which, what were you doing with Draco anyway?"

Hermione scowled. "Threatening him!"

Harry looked at her, puzzled. "I never said I threatened anyone."

"You didn't have to. I'm not stupid, Harry."

"Did you curse him?" Theo asked eagerly.

Hermione directed her scowl at him. "Don't encourage him!"

Theo smirked. "What did my childhood friend do to earn the wrath of Harry Potter this time?"

"He called her a filthy mudblood," Harry all but spat out. "Right to her face, in front of the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams."

Theo froze, no doubt recalling how close he'd been to calling Hermione a mudblood in front of Harry less than a year ago. Harry knew he'd never consider now, but he looked pointedly at Theo nonetheless.

"Oh...uh, sorry to hear that," he stumbled over his words a bit.

Hermione smiled weakly. "I'm over it."

Theo nodded, looking pleased with her answer. "Anyway, what's the plan for today?"

Harry glanced over at Hermione briefly. "I think we planned on finishing our occlumency studies at the beginning of November. Seeing as it's November 1st, I figured I could test you."

Hermione looked thrilled at the idea of a test, and Theo just shrugged.

"Alright, then, who wants to go first?"

Hermione's hand immediately shot up into the air, but a moment later she realized where she was, and sheepishly placed it back on her lap as Theo snickered at her, causing her to glare at him.

"Well, I suppose you're going first, Hermione. Are you ready?"

He looked searchingly in her eyes.

Hermione nodded, a determined look on her face.

He pointed his wand at her

" _Legilimens."_

Immediately, Harry felt his awareness being sucked into the dark hues of Hermione's eyes. A moment later, he found himself, as always, standing at the edge of one of the many moving stairwells that zig-zagged across Hogwarts castle. This was Hermione's entrance a chamber - the reflexive defence system she had put in place that separated the suggestible part of the mind that could be invaded easily and the parts that actually contained information of value. The defence itself was a security measure that snapped into place at the earliest sign of intrusion, and was an obfuscation of surface thoughts, given stable form by hours of long practice, and it was not unless this mini-world was broken through that the intruder could access memories or deeper thoughts of any kind.

Hermione had been very keen on building herself a unique, challenging defence; she'd settled on organizing her surface thoughts according to the path up to Gryffindor tower. Although, this mental version was much more treacherous than the actual thing. Every time Harry thought he was getting somewhere, the stairs would change direction, and every time he tried to run, the foundations of the castle would tremble violently.

After arriving, he walked around a bit, and patted some of his surroundings lightly. A few railings buckled slightly under the pressure he was applying, most of it was very sturdy. Satisfied, he reluctantly distanced himself from Hermione's incredible mind palace, and slowly and carefully withdrew from her mind.

She was staring at him expectantly.

"It's great, like always," he said.

She scowled. "But?"

"But I think you still need to strengthen your foundations a bit – I'm still nervous when I enter and exit, I don't want to knock anything around too much, but other people who enter your mind won't be so careful."

She nodded, satisfied with his answer.

He turned to look at Theo, who seemed a bit nervous.

"Don't worry," Harry said with a smile. "You'll do fine."

Theo nodded curtly.

" _Legilimens."_

Theo's defences were much more typical – an enormous stone wall that Harry was too afraid to try to break down, lest he shatter his friend's mind. He went along, poking and prodding and kicking, looking for any cracks or weaknesses. When he was satisfied that there were no obvious structural issues, he withdrew.

"See? It was fine. Just keep practising so that they stay strong."

Harry really couldn't give much better advice than that, because his own shields were so different from theirs. If an attacker was to enter Harry's mind, catching him off guard, they'd find themselves in darkness. Nothing but black formlessness. Harry's trick was to wrap the attacker in a ball of blackness that behaved a lot like how most people would imagine nothingness, and follow them around, shrouding the attacker's path until he was able to lead the attacker out of his mind. However, he felt this wouldn't be necessary anymore – not very often at least. After starting to practice legilimency, Harry got a better idea of how the mind worked, and what sorts of things you see when you scan someone's mind – as a result, he was starting to teach himself the skill of tricking an intruder into believing they had successfully penetrated his mind, which he'd attempted to employ when Professor Dumbledore scanned his mind the night before.

"Well?" Hermione said, startling him out of his musings, "What do you think?"

Harry nodded. "I'll test you again sometime next term, but I don't think I need to teach you anything else – I think you'll do just fine on your own."

Theo and Hermione looked quite proud of themselves.

"And...that's it, really. Now, weren't we going to look into becoming animagi next?" Harry asked, looking at Hermione expectantly.

She started when she noticed both boys staring at her.

"Oh, yes!" She pulled out of the bag she had with her a small book entitled _The Art of the Animagus_ and three small leaves. "These -" she pointed down at the leaves in her hand "- are mandrake leaves. I stole them from Greenhouse 3 a couple of nights ago. Apparently the first step to becoming an animagus is keeping these in your mouth for a month."

Harry's eyes widened. "A month?"

Hermione nodded. "Strange, I know. Apparently they secrete some kind of chemical that slowly gives you the ability to find your spirit animal."

"Your spirit animal?" Theo said with a laugh.

Hermione glared at him. "In many ancient pagan traditions every witch and wizard has an animal counterpart – becoming an animagus is supposed to entail becoming one with this counterpart. The first step is to dream about it. That's where the mandrake leaves come in."

Harry nodded, plucking a leaf out of her hand. He plopped it in his mouth and then grimaced. "Not exactly a culinary delight," he commented.

Hermione rolled her eyes and did the same, grimacing as well a moment later.

Theo took the last leaf and placed it in his mouth. "Ugh! Merlin! It tastes like hippogriff piss!"

Harry's eyes widened. "You know what hippogriff piss tastes like?"

His friends rolled their eyes. "It's an expression," they said simultaneously.

"Oh, ok. What next, then?"

Hermione shook her head. "We just have to wait. There's nothing else we can do, for now. In about a month we should start dreaming about our animal forms, but if it takes too long for us to figure out what we are, there's a potion we can brew to speed along the process."

"Speaking of potions," Harry said, "We should brew some."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think we get enough of Potions every week with Professor Snape?"

"No, I agree with Harry," Hermione said, "Practical potion-making is an important skill, and it really wouldn't hurt to have our own ready supply of pepper-up potions or healing salves, especially with all the dangerous spell-work and duelling we do."

"That," Harry added, "And I've come across some really interesting potions that we probably won't get to make in class for quite some time still, if at all."

Hermione's eyes glimmered. "Oh? Like what?"

"Well, I was reading about this potion called polyjuice potion..."

Theo frowned. "That sounds kind of familiar."

"What does it do?"

Harry grinned. "It lets you turn into someone else for a short amount of time."

His friends gaped at him.

"What do you mean lets you turn into someone else?" Hermione exclaimed.

"Well," Harry replied, "It literally changes your body into someone else's. You just brew the potion, and mix a few hairs or toenails or whatnot in, and poof! Instant transformation into anyone you want."

"That could be incredibly useful," Hermione said thoughtfully.

Theo smirked. "Yeah, we could cause all sorts of trouble."

Hermione smacked him on the arm. "Honestly, Theo."

"Honestly, Hermione."

"Shall I get us a list of ingredients to gather, then?"

"Yes!"

"Excellent. It looks hard...really hard, but I think if we start practicing with smaller things, we'll be able to do it. It'll make a good long term project. Now...how about a duel to celebrate your graduation?"

Hermione frowned. "Graduation?"

"From the esteemed Harry Potter Institute of the Mind Arts," Harry said cheekily.

His friends rolled their eyes.

"Fine."

"Two against one?"

"You're on."

* * *

Hermione's hand was raised high in the air, disturbing Professor Binn's very boring lecture on the formation of Wizengamot.

The elderly ghost stopped short when he saw her, staring at Hermione in wonderment.

"Miss – er –?"

"Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets," Hermione requested in a loud, firm voice.

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of his trance; Crabbe and Goyle, who'd been asleep a minute ago, blinked awake; and Neville's elbow slipped off his desk.

Meanwhile, Harry sighed. He'd been quite happy to forget the whole thing, but his schoolmates weren't making it easy. He believed the current theory was that Malfoy was responsible for the whole thing, and Harry had valiantly tried to stop him, but the whole thing was being covered up by the teachers. Let it never be said that Quidditch was the only sport played at Hogwarts - rumour-mongering was quite popular as well.

Professor Binns blinked. "My subject is History of Magic," he said in his dry, wheezy voice. "I deal with facts, Miss Granger, not myths and legends." He cleared his throat raspily and continued, "In September of that year, a sub-committee of Sardinian sorcerers -"

He stuttered to a halt. Hermione's hand was waving in the air again.

"Miss Grant?"

Malfoy was snickering slightly, causing Ron to look over and glare at him.

"Please, sir, don't legends always have a basis in fact?"

Professor Binns was looking at her in utter amazement.

"Well," said elderly ghost said slowly, "Yes, one could argue that, I suppose." He peered at Hermione as though he was looking at her for the first time. "However, the legend of which you speak is such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale..."

He looked like he wanted to leave it at that, but now the whole class was hanging on Professor his every word. He looked dully around the classroom, eyes twitching as he did. Harry could tell he was completely thrown by such an unusual show of interest in what he had to say. Hermione was probably the only one in at least twenty years who cared what Professor Binns had to say in general, and this was probably the first time he'd ever held a whole class's attention.

"Oh, very well," he said slowly, giving in. "Let me see...the Chamber of Secrets ...you all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago – the precise date is uncertain – by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution."

He paused, gazing blearily around the room, before he continued, "For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But eventually, disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school." Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled old tortoise. "Reliable historical sources tell us this much," he said, "But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing.

"Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic."

There was a bated silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn't the usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor Binns's classes. There was unease in the air as everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more.

Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed. "The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course," he remarked with a scowl. "Naturally, the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible."

Hermione's hand was back in the air. "Sir – what exactly do you mean by the 'horror within' the Chamber?"

"That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the heir of Slytherin alone can control," Professor Binns wheezed out.

The entire class exchanged nervous looks...except Harry, who was trying to avoid eye contact with everyone, deep in thought, curiously mulling over Professor Binns's story in his mind.

"I tell you, the thing does not exist," huffed Professor Binns, shuffling his notes. "There is no Chamber and no monster."

"But, sir," said Seamus Finnigan suddenly, "If the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin's true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?"

Exactly, he wanted to point out.

"Nonsense, O'Flaherty," said Professor Binns in an aggravated tone. "If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven't found the thing -"

"But, Professor," Parvati Patil piped up, "You'd probably have to use dark magic to open it -"

Harry scowled at her openly. Just because it was built by Slytherin, they thought it had to be dark magic. Harry knew for a fact that that wasn't the case.

"Just because a wizard doesn't use dark magic, doesn't mean he can't, Miss Pennyfeather," Professor Binns snapped at her. "I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore -"

"But maybe you've got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn't -" began Dean Thomas, but Professor Binns had had enough.

"That will do," he said sharply. "It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!"

Harry then put up his hand, a little surprised at himself as he did. Maybe this would be a good time to make a point.

Professor Binns sighed wearily. "Yes, Mr. -" he squinted "- Potter?"

"Sir, I could not help but notice a discrepancy between the history and the legend."

The professor looked somewhat more interested now. "Oh?"

"You mentioned that Slytherin was suspicious of muggleborns, that he didn't trust students with muggle parents, which lines up with the history of the period – lynchings of alleged witches and wizards were common enough that the subject of witch-burning was discussed as an issue during several Councils held by the Catholic Church, where laws were put in place to minimize the damage done to wizarding families by the common folk, who blamed them for sickness, draught, and famine.

"However, in the tenth and eleventh centuries, the Church had little influence in England, and secular rulers made the persecution of witches and wizards even worse by creating laws that allowed those suspected of doing magic to be held and tortured for information."

Professor Binns was looking absolutely gobsmacked at this point. "Yes, go on."

"Then it makes sense why Slytherin would have been mistrustful of students with muggle families. Perhaps his suspicions were misplaced, but they made sense. So why is it that the legend tells us that Slytherin left a monster here to eradicate those _unworthy_ of studying magic, when the history you told us about says nothing about unworthiness at all? Worthiness doesn't necessarily have anything to do with trustworthiness, after all."

The whole class was staring at him now with bewildered looks on their faces. He wasn't sure why. It was a very reasonable question – he was surprised no one had asked it yet.

In the meantime, Professor Binns looked quite pleased. "Too right you are, Mr. Potter. There is no evidence that Salazar Slytherin believed in blood purity at all – he simply mistrusted witches and wizards that had too much contact with muggles. This, see, is why the entire legend is nonsense, filled with hundreds of years worth of prejudices and sensationalism. Now! As I was saying before Miss Grant's interruption..."

And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor, though Harry could sense puzzled looks still being thrown his way by Slytherins, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs alike.

The class passed quickly, and as always, people were quick to leave after. Harry slipped away before his housemates could start questioning him, and tried to find Hermione.

"Hermione!" he called, running up to her.

She looked at him strangely. "What was that about?"

He blinked. "What was what about?"

"Your question, about Slytherin's views on blood purity."

"It was a valid question. Slytherin might have been misguided, but the history makes it sound like his heart was in the right place."

Hermione was opening her mouth to argue, so he continued.

"Besides, it doesn't really matter anymore. There hasn't been a witch burning in centuries, so his concerns are obsolete..." Well, maybe not, but he wasn't about to start _that_ conversation. "That's not what I wanted to talk to you about though. I want to talk about what you said."

She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You shouldn't be looking into the Chamber, Hermione."

She looked outraged. "Why!?"

Harry huffed. Honestly, Hermione could be a bit dense, sometimes. "No matter what Slytherin's views were, whoever's claimed to open the Chamber probably hates muggleborns – and if they think you're getting to inquisitive...what if you were next?"

Hermione looked upset. "But Harry! Someone has to look into it -"

"The teachers can do it. Besides, this might be a one-off thing. Maybe someone's bad idea of a Halloween prank."

The determined look on her face faltered. "I guess so..."

Harry smiled slightly. "Just focus on your classes...and keeping these nasty mandrake leaves in our mouths."

She giggled a bit. "Did you see Theo the other day during lunch, when we had tomato soup? He looked like he was going to be sick."

Harry chuckled, but then frowned. "Have you seen -" his voice dropped to a whisper "- Ginny Weasley yet?"

Hermione froze for a half second, and then shook her head slowly. "I haven't had the chance yet."

Harry grimaced. "Alright...let me know when you do."

"Harry!"

He turned around to see Michael Corner and Terry Boot heading toward them.

"Hermione," Michael greeted, while Terry just blushed.

"Hi," Harry said confusedly, "What's up?"

"We were just wondering where you learnt all that about the witch-burnings in the eleventh century," Michael explained as they caught up to them.

Hermione frowned. "I'm curious about that too. I didn't realize that the Catholic church was actually _against_ witch-burnings at any point."

"Actually," Harry commented, "The Catholic Church worked with the Council of Upsalla during the Dark Ages."

Terry's eyes went wide. "Seriously?"

Harry nodded happily. "Pope Alexander the Fourth actually decreed that the Church wasn't supposed to investigate accusations of witchcraft – there were periods when Rome actively helped sweep incidents with muggles under the rug."

His friends were gaping at him.

"No way!"

"Yeah, it wasn't really until the beginnings of the Protestant Reformation that things really started to fall apart...I can recommend some books from the library, if you like."

"Oh, you simply must, now," Michael said with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, the best one is probably _A History of Magical and Muggle Cooperation, Volume II_. There's only one copy though -"

He blinked, and suddenly they were gone.

He sighed. They didn't even let him finish. He could have easily recommended a book to each of them, but no, they had to run off at the words 'only one copy' – true words of doom when associating with Ravenclaws, as it turned out.

* * *

"Now boys, look sharp – shake hands," Madame Hooch said sternly.

Flint and Wood obeyed, giving each other threatening stares and haphazardly trying to break the other's hand as they exchanged a tense greeting.

"On my whistle," said Madam Hooch, "Three ...two ...one ...'

As Harry's broom rose into the air like everyone else's, nervousness fluttered in his chest. Last year, his first Quidditch match of the year hadn't gone very well. In fact, he'd nearly died. He felt Tom's apprehension in the back of his mind, and couldn't help but feel a little of his own.

 _Keep an eye out_ , Tom was saying in his head.

Harry was about to mumble a reply when a heavy black Bludger came pelting towards him; he avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as it passed.

"Close one, Harry!" Lucian Bole crowed humorously as he swooshed past him, club in hand.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief when Bole gave the Bludger powerful whack in the direction of Angelina Johnson, but the Bludger changed direction in mid-air and shot straight for Harry again. Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and Bole managed to hit it away again, this time in the direction of one of the Weasley twins. Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry's head.

Eye's widening, Harry burst forward and zoomed towards the other end of the pitch. He could hear the Bludger whistling along behind him. What was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible...

Derrick waited for him at the other end of the pitch, and once Harry swooshed past him, he hit the Bludger with all his might in the opposite direction.

"That's done it!" he shouted with a smirk, but he was wrong; as though it was magnetically attracted towards Harry, the Bludger pelted after him once more and Harry was forced to fly off at full speed.

Left, right, and down hadn't worked, so he decided to try up.

Higher and higher Harry climbed. He looped and swooped, spiralled, zig-zagged and rolled. Slightly dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open. Rain was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. He could hear laughter from the crowd; he knew he must look very silly, whirling and spinning in the air, but he wasn't about to get hit by a Bludger because he was too embarrassed to dodge.

It followed him relentlessly, never veering too far off course; but thankfully it was heavy and couldn't change direction as quickly as he could, allowing him to dodge quite effectively. He began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through raindrops at the Slytherin goalposts, where Adrian Pucey was ...then he caught sight of it – the Snitch! He changed course, but he took just a bit too long; the Bludger had hit him at last, smashed into his elbow, and Harry felt his arm break. He let out a small shout, but didn't allow himself to be unseated. Not yet. Not when the Snitch was so close by.

Dimly, dazed by the searing pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain-drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his right arm dangling useless at his side. The Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time aiming at his face.

He barely dodged, and came to a decision – damn the Bludger, he needed to get the Snitch and end the game. Ducking down close to his broom, he sped forward, toward the Bludger, which was careening over to him once again. He picked up speed, and at the last moment, dodged it, grabbing for the Snitch seconds after he did; he took his remaining good hand off his broom and made a wild snatching motion, and a moment later he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch...but he was now only gripping the broom with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as he flipped over and was thrown straight for the ground.

Blinking, he tried hard not to pass out as, with a splattering thud, he hit the mud and rolled off his broom. Completely overcome with pain (which was a completely different kind of pain from the pain Tom released on him), he heard, as though from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand, and breathed a sigh of relief that the game was finally over. It had only been 15 minutes, but it felt like an eternity to him.

Exhausted, he blacked out for a moment, and when he next came round, rain was stinging his face, and he was still lying on the pitch, with someone leaning over him. He saw a glitter of perfect white teeth.

"Oh no, not you," he moaned, unable to help himself.

"Doesn't know what he's saying," said Lockhart loudly, to the anxious crowd of students pressing in around them.

"I know exactly what I'm saying," he hissed through his teeth.

"Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to fix your arm."

"No! That's quite alright, it's fine, it's fine," Harry sputtered. He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar clicking noise nearby.

"Creevy," he moaned, "Go take pictures of raindrops or something."

"Lie back, Harry," said Lockhart soothingly. "It's a simple charm I've used countless times."

"Yes, and that's lovely sir..." he winced "But Madame Pomfrey likes to take care of these things herself," he said through clenched teeth.

"He's right," Flint put in firmly, pushing through the crowd with a grin. "Good work Potter. Made a bloody good spectacle of yourself, but we sure won."

Harry nodded weakly.

Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and George Weasley, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.

"Stand back," said Lockhart grandly, rolling up his jade-green sleeves.

"No...no...please..." Harry whimpered, not caring how undignified he sounded at this point.

Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed it straight at Harry's arm.

" _Brackium Emendo!"_

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry's shoulder and spread all the way down to his fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being deflated; he couldn't say for sure what was happening, though, because he didn't dare sneak a peek at what was going on. He had shut his eyes, his face turned desperately away from his arm, but his worst fears were realised as the people above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking away madly...Harry didn't think it was at the raindrops.

His arm didn't hurt any more, but it didn't feel remotely like an arm either.

"Ah," Lockhart said uneasily, "Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the Hospital Wing – ah, Mr. Flint, Mr. Higgs, would you escort him? – and Madam Pomfrey will be able to – er – tidy you up a bit."

As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath he looked down at his right side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again. Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, flesh-coloured rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened. Lockhart hadn't mended Harry's bones. He had removed them.

Why did these things always happen to him?

* * *

Predictably, Madam Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased.

"You should have come straight to me!" she raged, holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a perfectly functioning arm. "I can mend bones in a second – but growing them back -"

"That is something you can do though, right?" Harry asked with no small amount of panic in his voice.

"I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful," said Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harry a pair of pyjamas. "You'll have to stay the night..."

This was ok, though – sleepless, pain filled nights were not that unfamiliar to him, after all.

Once he'd changed into his pyjamas, he removed the curtain to find Hermione and Theo standing there in front of him. Hermione looked outraged and Theo had a great scowl upon his face.

"Bloody Lockhart!"

"How could he!" Hermione was basically screeching. "He vanished your bones! Of all the incompetent -"

"...Hermione...?"

Both of the boys were gaping at her.

"What?" she spat out.

"You're...not going to defend him?" Theo asked, bewildered.

"He vanished Harry's bones," Hermione hissed out in response.

Harry lay back in his bed, a relieved smile on his face. "Finally..."

At least something good had come from the whole debacle.

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain, holding a large bottle of something labelled 'Skele-Gro'.

"You're in for a rough night," she said, pouring out a steaming beaker full and handing it to him. "Regrowing bones is a nasty business."

So was taking the Skele-Gro, as it turned out. It burned Harry's mouth and throat as it went down, the same way Fire Whiskey did in Tom's memories (although the taste was even more unpleasant), making him cough and splutter.

Still ranting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Theo and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some water.

"We won, though," Theo commented, a grin breaking across his face. "Flint was thrilled."

Hermione scowled at him, and Harry looked unimpressed. "I'm sure he was."

Soon after, Higgs and Pucey showed up with a pile of chocolate.

"Figured you deserved it," Higgs said, "Having broken your arm so we could win the game."

Harry smiled wryly. "I suppose I'll have to do it more often, then."

"Oh no you won't!" Madame Pomfrey said, scurrying back into the room to place several potions near Harry's bedside. "This boy needs rest, he's got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!"

And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the stabbing pains in his limp arm.

* * *

Hours later – he wasn't sure when - Harry woke quite suddenly in the pitch blackness of midnight and gave a small yelp of pain: his arm now felt like it was full of large splinters. For a second, he thought it was that sensation which had woken him. Then, with the stabbing sensation of utter horror, he realised that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark.

"No!" he hissed a panicked voice, waving his good arm. "Get off! Get off me!" he hissed, panicking frantically. But as his eyes adjusted, he paused and gasped. "Dobby!"

The house-elf's goggling tennis-ball eyes were peering at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.

"Harry Potter came back to school," he whispered miserably.

"Well, yes, what did you expect me to do?" he asked frankly.

"Dobby warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby?" He looked very distraught, and was rocking backwards and forwards, shaking his oversized head. "Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir..."

Harry felt horrible at that, and shrank back under his covers, feeling rather guilty.

Meanwhile, Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, "Harry Potter must go home! Harry Potter is in grave, grave danger..."

Harry grimaced. "You know, you might be right – just today I almost got killed by this mad Bludger."

Dobby's goggling eyes grew even wider, and he let out a sob, looking incredibly guilty, before he whispered, "Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make -"

"Your Bludger?" Harry exclaimed incredulously, "What do you mean, 'your Bludger'? You made that Bludger try and kill me?"

Tom was hissing something furiously in the back of his mind.

"Not kill you, sir, never kill you!" said Dobby, seemingly shocked to the core. "Dobby wants to save Harry Potter's life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here, sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!"

Harry chuckled darkly. "Oh, is that all? And I suppose you still won't tell me why you want me sent home in pieces?"

"Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!" Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase-dress. "If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, us dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He Who Must Not Be Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elves were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir," he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase. "But mostly, sir, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He Who Must Not Be Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the dark days would never end, sir...and now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more -"

Dobby froze, horror-struck, then grabbed Harry's water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later, he crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, "Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby..."

Harry frowned. "You know about the Chamber? But I'm not a muggleborn – how can I be in danger from the Chamber?"

"Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby," stammered the elf, his eyes huge and tearing in the dark. "Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter must not be here when they happen. Go home, Harry Potter. Go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, 'tis too dangerous -"

"Dobby," Harry said sternly, "Is it your masters? Is it your master that's opened up the Chamber of Secrets?"

Lucius Malfoy originally had the diary. Harry and Tom initially thought he'd lost it, but...Lucius Malfoy had been in direct contact with Ginny Weasley in Flourish and Blotts at the end of August. And once again, Lucius Malfoy's house-elf was warning him about the opening of the Chamber. Could this all be...on purpose? Some convoluted plot conjured up by Lucius Malfoy to accomplish...well, he didn't know what the man was trying to accomplish.

"Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't, Dobby mustn't tell!" the elf squealed. "Go home, Harry Potter, go home!"

Harry grit his teeth. "You want me to leave while my friends are in danger? Run away?"

"Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!" moaned Dobby, in a kind of miserable ecstasy. "So noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must, Harry Potter must not -" Dobby suddenly froze, his pointed ears quivering.

Harry heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.

"Dobby must go!" breathed the elf, terrified; there was a loud crack as the elf popped away.

Harry slumped back into his bed, his eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer.

In a moment's time, Professor Dumbledore was backing into the hospital wing, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed.

"Get Madame Pomfrey," Professor Dumbledore whispered, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry's bed and out of sight.

Harry pretended to be asleep; his eyes were half closed, but still fixed on the bed across the room.

A moment later he heard urgent voices, and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madame Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress. He heard her sharp intake of breath.

"What happened?" the matron whispered to Professor Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed.

"Another attack. Minerva found him on the stairs."

"There were a bunch of of grapes next to him. We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter."

Harry blinked, squinting.

Sure enough, it was Colin Creevy, a camera in his frozen hands, lying in the hospital bed across the room.

"Petrified?" whispered Madame Pomfrey.

"Yes. But I shudder to think...if Albus hadn't been on his way downstairs for hot chocolate, who knows what might have..."

He saw Professor Dumbledore slowly and carefully trying to pry the camera out of Creevy's hands.

"You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?"

"That would be fortuitous indeed," the elderly man said

A moment later, there was a loud pop before a jet of steam hissed out of the camera. Harry caught the smell of burnt plastic.

"Good gracious!"

"Melted," Madame Pomfrey said in amazement, "All melted."

"What does this mean, Albus?"

There was an uneasy pause.

"It means that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open once again."

* * *

There we go, a nice long one for you guys. Please leave a review! I want to know what you think :)


	32. Incident Number Three

**Disclaimer:** present.

 **AN1:** Thought I'd get another chapter up quickly since the last one was a bit on the predictable side. This one should be more interesting.

 **AN2:** There was a comment last chapter about how students from all the houses were present in History class. In my story, all the houses have their classes together (except Potions, which is a practical class that requires more supervision). The main reason I'm doing this is because given how few Hogwarts students there actually are, I think it's a bit silly that they split classes up into fourths. Plus - consistency. Harry wouldn't be competing with Hermione unless they had classes together.

* * *

 **Chapter 32: Incident Number Three**

"So you're telling me...Ginny Weasley _lost_ the diary."

Hermione shook her head. "No, she threw it away."

Harry nearly gaped at her. Someone threw away Tom's horcrux. She _threw it away._ His head was pounding, and Tom was audibly ranting.

 _...worthless blood-traitor quim...!_

"Sh-she threw it away? Where?" he asked, maybe a bit too eagerly.

Hermione frowned at him. "One of the girls bathrooms."

Harry's eyes widened.

"But I already checked," Hermione said quickly, "It wasn't there. Someone took it."

Harry stared at her. She was fidgeting. There was something in her voice, something on her face...she knew something, something she wasn't telling him. Something wasn't right. "You're sure?"

She reddened a little in the face. "Of course."

Harry's fingers twitched, suddenly overcome by the urge to cast the spell he knew would give him his answers.

" _Legilimens."_

is what he wanted to say. But he couldn't. He wouldn't do that to his friend.

Suddenly, a wave of irritated frustration washed over him, alerting him to the fact that the thought had surely come from Tom.

"Alright..." he said slowly. "Thanks anyway."

Hermione nodded quickly. "Of course. I've got to...go now. There's another book on animagi I've been meaning to check out. After all, we should start having dreams about our animagus forms soon."

Harry nodded. "I think I've already started having them, actually."

Hermione, apparently having forgotten the awkwardness of the preceding conversation, suddenly looked very excited. "I think I might have seen something too! Last night, I had a dream where I was sitting out in the sun – I could feel fur on my body! What did you see?"

"I was in a tree," Harry said, "Not sure exactly what it meant, but I've seen it a few times – being in a tree – I figure I'm either something that can fly or something that can climb."

Hermione peered at him thoughtfully. "You'll have to ask Theo if he's seen anything."

"He said he had a dream where he was running on all fours, but nothing else."

"So I have fur, you climb, and Theo runs..."

Harry nodded. "Curious, isn't it?"

Hermione smiled. "Curious indeed."

He froze, catching sight of something unexpected as they walked off.

"What?" she asked.

He pointed to a sheet pinned to the wall behind her, on the noticeboard.

She spun around, and gasped a moment later. "They're starting a duelling club!"

Harry nodded with a grin. "We should go. Show off a bit."

Hermione smirked a little at that. Hermione would have never smirked at anything when he first met her, but apparently spending so much time around Theo broadened her range of facial expressions. "Yes, let's. I'll meet you and Theo there – in less than an hour, I suppose."

"Yeah, I'll go fetch him."

When Harry entered the Slytherin Common Room, he headed straight for Theo, who was playing exploding snap on the floor near the fireplace with Tracey Davis and Daphne.

He smiled as he plopped down beside Theo.

"Daphne, Davis," he greeted.

Davis scowled at him. "How come you call her Daphne but I'm still Davis?"

Harry blinked. He hadn't really thought about that. "Um, well, you've never corrected me, I guess."

The girl huffed. "Fine, then call me Tracey."

Harry smiled brightly. "Alright Tracey!"

She rolled her eyes. "Now is there a reason you're interrupting our game?"

"Harry can interrupt whatever he wants!" Daphne said passionately.

Tracey rolled her eyes again. "Yeah, sure."

Meanwhile, Harry smiled bashfully. "Yeah, sorry about that – there's duelling club tonight, though."

Theo dropped his cards. "There's _what_?"

"Duelling club," Harry repeated. "I'm assuming it's a club where you duel."

"Yeah, no kidding," Tracey snarked with a snort.

"We should go," Harry said happily, "It could be fun."

"I'd _love_ to watch you duel, Harry," Daphne purred.

"Well, you should probably duel too," Harry corrected.

"Oh, yes, of course."

"When does it start?" Theo asked.

"About fourty minutes."

"Enough time to finish our game," Tracey said with a shrug. "You can help out Theo, Harry. He needs all the help he can get."

"Hey!"

When they reached the Great Hall, they found that the long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had been erected, and was stretched out along wall, glittering in the light of the thousands of candles floating far above their heads. The ceiling was velvety black once more, reflecting the tranquil night far above, and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all holding their wands in their hands and looking very eager and excited.

As soon as Harry saw Hermione, he waved at her, and she came running over.

"Harry! Theo! And, er, Greengrass and Davis, right?"

Tracey gave her a half smile. "That's right."

"I'm -"

"Oh, we know who _you_ are," Daphne said with a scowl. "Harry talks about you _all the time_."

"You do?"

Harry smiled bashfully. "Not _all_ the time."

"I wonder who'll be teaching us," Hermione wondered, ignoring the unproductive turn that conversation was taking, standing on the tips of her toes to peer over the crowd. "Someone told me Flitwick was a duelling champion when he was young. Maybe it will be him."

"It hardly matters," Harry said, "As long as it's not -"

At that moment, Gilderoy Lockhart burst into the room, bright purple robes flowing behind him, with his signature self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Theo purposefully stepped on his foot. "You bloody jinxed it."

Harry hung his head ashamedly. "I'm sorry."

"Did you just step on his foot?" Daphne hissed.

"If I did, he deserved it."

Hermione and Tracey were wearing identical expressions.

Lockhart dramatically waved an arm to call for silence and called, "Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!

"Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little Duelling Club, to train you all up in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions – for full details, see my published works."

"See my published works," it was Ron, mimicking mockingly in a mumble. He'd come up to stand beside Hermione.

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape -"

Harry nearly choked on thin air. Professor Snape was no one's assistant. Sure enough, the man looked silently furious, as he usually did while being forced to look at Lockhart.

"He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself -"

 _He knows more than a tiny little bit,_ Tom whispered in his mind grouchily, apparently unimpressed with the whole affair.

"- and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry – you'll still have your Potions Master when I'm through with him, never fear!"

"Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?" Ron whispered.

Theo quirked an eyebrow and Tracey and Daphne glared at him. Hermione rolled her eyes and tutted scoldingly.

Meanwhile, Professor Snape's upper lip was curling in disgust.

Lockhart, of course, was completely oblivious.

"As you can see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart explained, "On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course -" The man winked.

Something stirred inside Harry, and it took him a moment to realize that part of him actually hoped Professor Snape would _accidentally_ eradicate Lockhart - blast him from the face of the earth, if possible. Great, now he was feeling homicidal and had to feel even more terrible about himself. Bloody Lockhart.

"One, two, three!"

Both of them swung their wands up and over their shoulders.

Immediately, Professor Snape cried out, _"Expelliarmus!"_

The spell was so forceful that Lockhart was blasted off his feet; he flew backwards of the stage, smashing into the wall and sliding down it to sprawl on the floor.

Harry smiled broadly, and Theo was cackling quietly beside him. Ron looked like Christmas had come early, and Hermione was staring on with cold satisfaction.

Meanwhile, Tracey was trying to look over the crowd of students. "Do you think he's alright?" she asked casually.

"Who cares!" Ron exclaimed.

She rolled her eyes.

In the meantime, Lockhart rose unsteadily to his feet. "Well, there you have it!" he shouted, tottering back onto the platform. "That was the Disarming Charm – as you see, I've lost my wand – thank you Miss Brown -"

"Wouldn't it have been great if someone accidentally stepped on it?" Theo said under his breath.

Ron grinned at that.

"Yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind me saying so -"

Harry was pretty sure Professor Snape minded everything Lockhart said.

"- it was pretty obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you, it would have been only too easy. However, I felt it would be instructive to let them see."

Snape was looking at him murderously, and evidently Lockhart finally noticed, because he sobered a bit, and said, "Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now and put all of you who don't have partners yet into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me."

Hermione and Theo instantly turned to each other.

"Dibs," they said simultaneously.

"On what?" the others asked confusedly.

"Harry," Hermione said by way of explanation.

Harry frowned. "Yes, I suppose pairs are two people, not three."

"By definition," Theo said blandly.

"Perhaps Ron would benefit from your instruction," Harry commented looking over at Hermione. None of the others would want to duel with Ron, and he didn't want him to feel left out.

Hermione sighed and immediately looked over at Ron. "Come on," she said with a glance at Harry and Theo, "I'll teach you the disarming charm."

Ron grinned. "Wicked."

Theo looked at the remaining two girls. "Neither of you get Harry."

Tracey rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Come on, Daphne."

"But I want to watch!"

"Come on."

Harry looked at Theo with a small smirk. "Do you think you can manage a couple of spells wordlessly?"

Theo grinned smugly. "Well, as long as you don't throw anything at me too fast, _Protego_ , probably."

"Good enough." Harry put some distance between them as Lockhart called, "Face your partners!"

Harry looked at Theo, who seemed quite excited.

"Wands at the ready!" Lockhart shouted. "When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponent – _only_ to disarm them – we wouldn't want any accidents. One...two...three..."

Theo immediately cast with a shout, _"Expelliarmus_!"

Harry instantly brought up a wordless _"Protego,"_ and went on to cast the same charm at Theo, wordlessly. His friend, used to Harry's wordless charms, blocked easily. Neither of them were trying very hard – their usual duelling techniques could get a bit...messy, and something told Harry that collateral damage was not acceptable in duelling club.

Theo cast _"Stupefy"_ and Harry blocked once again, wordlessly responding with a weak _"Bombarda"._

"I said disarm only!" he heard Lockhart call in alarm over the crowd of students.

Harry held up his hand to signal to Theo that they were stopping, and then looked around, observing the chaos around him.

Neville and Finch-Fletchly were lying on the floor panting, Ron was looking quite frazzled whilst Hermione suppressed a smirk, holding his wand in her left hand – several other students had fallen over; some of the duels looked like they had actually devolved into brawls. Meanwhile, several people had abandoned their duels altogether to ogle at Harry and Theo in wonderment.

Michael and Terry were grinning and giving them thumbs-up.

"Dear, dear," Lockhart said, skittering through the crowd, "Up you get, Macmillan...careful there, Miss Fawcett...pinch it hard, it will stop bleeding in a second..."

He sighed. "I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells," he said, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at Professor Snape, whose black eyes glinted menacingly, and looked quickly away. "Let's have a volunteer pair – Longbottom and Flinch-Fletchley, how about you?"

"A bad idea, Professor Lockhart," Professor Snape cut in, gliding over. "Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox."

Finch-Fletchley went pale as Neville went rather red in the face.

"How about Malfoy and Potter?" he concluded with a twisted smile.

Harry nearly groaned.

Theo snickered. "This will be entertaining."

"I really doubt it."

"Excellent idea!" Lockhart exclaimed, gesturing to Harry and Malfoy.

"Now Harry," Lockhart said, "When Draco points his wand at you, do this."

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action and dropped it as Professor Snape smirked.

"Whoops – my wand is a little over excited -"

"Actually, Professor," Harry said respectfully, "I already know the shielding charm. I'm quite alright."

Lockhart blinked. "Oh, alright then."

Harry looked over at Malfoy, who was listening to something Professor Snape was saying as he glanced covertly Harry's way with a terrified look on his face.

Cautiously, Malfoy approached him.

"One, two, three – go!" Lockhart cried out.

Harry did nothing. He just watched Malfoy, curious about what the other boy would do.

Malfoy froze at first, but a moment later, a strange look came over his face, as though he was resolved, and he cried out, _"Expelliarmus!"_

" _Protego,"_ Harry said quietly.

Professor Snape looked a bit disappointed but nodded curtly.

But before he could step in to end the duel, Malfoy exclaimed, _"Serpensortia!"_

The end of his wand exploded, and Harry watched in horror as a long black snake shot out of it, falling heavily onto the floor with a thud between them, ready to strike.

Fearful screams filled the air, and the crowd backed off.

Harry could feel Tom's fury and panic, and took a deep breath.

 _:What's this? What's this?:_ the snake was saying angrily. _:Two legged ones everywhere, everywhere!:_

Harry panicked, knowing how close the snake was to lashing out violently. What could he do? He couldn't calm the snake down by talking to it – that would expose him – so he did the next best thing – he held his hand out to it, thinking furiously in parseltongue, just hissing in his mind over and over again, "Shh...it's ok."

He didn't dare even open his mouth.

The snake seemed surprised by the gesture, and stared at him for a long moment.

Slowly, Harry knelt down in front of the snake, reaching out further until he was nearly touching its skin. Then the snake leaned into his touch.

 _:You're a speaker, aren't you?:_

Harry nodded subtly.

 _:Very well then.:_

He sighed in relief. Crisis averted.

Meanwhile, everyone was staring at him, dumbstruck.

He looked around, trying very hard to forget about the snake, lest he slip into parseltongue, and put on his most innocent, charming face. "What? Animals love me."

Several girls were looked at him with adoring faces. Daphne was blushing something fierce.

Seemingly stirring from the shock, Professor Snape stepped forward, waving his wand so that the snake vanished in a small puff of smoke.

Harry could not help the disappointed look that came over his face as he looked up to Professor Snape, who had a very strange look in his eye, before he turned to glare at Malfoy, who had stepped back nervously.

"Well then," Lockhart exclaimed, "Another pair, perhaps?"

* * *

Immediately after Theo and Ron were called up to the stage, Harry brushed through the crowd, ignoring Hermione's call after him.

He needed to...think...or something.

Bloody Malfoy – he'd set him up! He suspected him! But how? How could the blonde menace possibly know he was a parselmouth? He went pale. Malfoy knew he heard the voice, Halloween night, and must have deduced what everyone seemed to be missing – that Slytherin's monster had to have been some sort of snake; that's why only the heir could control it.

And since Harry had stupidly blurted out that he heard something, Malfoy had guessed that he might be able to speak to snakes.

Stupid! So stupid!

That proved it, though – Draco Malfoy was a lot of things, but he wasn't actually stupid. Arrogant, cruel, annoying, and ignorant, but not stupid.

Incompetent, foolish, weak, cowardly, arrogant, fool, fool, fool...

Would they know? Would they find out? The Headmaster would hear about it, surely. Would he figure it out? Would he come to understand what Harry was?

How much time did he have left?

He couldn't die, not yet.

No, no, no, this was all wrong.

Harry grit his teeth as he marched up stairwell after stairwell until he reached the seventh floor corridor.

 _Just a big empty room_ , he thought furiously as he paced, and a moment later, a door appeared.

As soon as he entered he entered the Room of Requirement, he took a deep breath and glowered at the wall. He was numb all over; he couldn't think – his brain had turned to sawdust, and his thoughts were splayed all over the place in a mess. He breathed, over, and over, and over, his breaths shallow, panicked, and ragged. Something fearful and hot and cold was building inside him, swirling like a burning tempest, and soon he couldn't contain it any longer. He gripped his wand until his knuckles went white, as he thrust it toward the blank wall before him.

" _Bombarda MAXIMA!"_ he screamed violently, voice cracking and breaking under the weight of his words, _"REDUCTO! EXPULSO! CONFRINGO! CONFRINGO! CONFRINGO!"_

* * *

When Harry returned that evening (after having dusted all the disintegrated rock out of his hair), the other boys were already in the dorm room, Crabbe and Goyle playing exploding snap with Malfoy on the floor, and Zabini and Theo both on their beds reading.

When he entered the room, all eyes fell on him, and sensing the anger that was still emanating from his body, everyone froze.

Harry took a few steps forward, eyes resting on Malfoy, who had gotten to his feet defensively.

"Theo, lock the door."

"Harry -"

"Do it now!" Harry hissed, eyes narrow and trained on Malfoy, who was starting to look very uneasy.

Meanwhile, Theo hurried off his bed to lock the door, and Crabbe and Goyle backed up against the wall at the other side of the room, eyes wide and gazes unsure.

"Take out your wand."

"Potter, I don't know what you -"

" _Take out your wand_ , Malfoy."

Gritting his teeth angrily, indignance written all over his face, the boy did just that.

"What, aren't you going to draw yours, Potter?"

"I don't need it," Harry said, and Malfoy bristled.

"Now, cast the spell."

Malfoy's eyes flashed, and suddenly he started to look afraid.

"What, aren't you curious anymore, Malfoy?" Harry asked sweetly, "We'd hate to have that. After all, Draco Malfoy gets what Draco Malfoy wants, isn't that right? So cast the spell."

Malfoy didn't move.

" _Cast the spell_!" Harry snarled.

" _S-serpensortia_..."

Nothing happened.

Harry smirked coldly. "You have to _mean it_ , Draco."

The Malfoy heir did his best to steel himself, drawing up all the shaky confidence he had left in him.

" _Serpensortia!"_

And with that, a medium-sized black snake burst forth from his wand, landing on the floor with an ominous thud. Furious, it recoiled as it stared at Harry, and was poised to strike, when -

 _:I mean you no harm, please, don't attack me.:_

The snake froze, as did everyone else in the room. Crabbe and Goyle were standing slack-jawed in the back of the room, and Zabini's book had clapped shut. And as Theo stared on, eyes alight with fascination, Draco Malfoy went white as a ghost.

 _:You speak?:_ the snake said curiously, tilting his head to the side.

 _:I do. And I apologise that you have been brought here so rudely.:_

 _:Not at all, if the speaker summoned me -:_

 _:I didn't summon you. That boy behind you did.:_

The snake turned around to look at Malfoy, who was vibrating with nervous energy, now, something akin to pure terror on his face.

 _:Why don't you scare him a bit,:_ Harry suggested, and the snake lunged forward, causing Malfoy to give a shout and stumble backward and fall against his bed.

 _:That's enough,_ : Harry said, with a small smirk, _:I think he's learned his lesson.:_

 _:Of course, speaker.:_

 _:Now, come to me, and hide under my robe. I must attend to things here, but I will find a way to get you outside and set you free soon.:_

 _:Can I not stay?:_

 _:We will both be in danger, if you do. It's best that you leave.:_

 _:As you wish.:_ Bowing slightly in acquiescence, the snake slithered toward Harry, up his arm and under his robes.

Feeling the snake coiling around his arms, Harry relaxed into the touch, his temper starting to ebb away, leaving an eerie calm behind.

"Now," Harry said softly, "I believe that this will do away with any need for idle speculation and rumour spreading."

Zabini had risen to his feet. "Do you mean to say...that _you're_ the Heir of Slytherin?"

Harry pursed his lips. "I am..."

Draco was still gaping at him. "Then you _are_ the one behind the attacks!"

Theo scowled at him. "No Draco, you stupid, presumptuous little twit! He -"

"Theo, it's alright," Harry said, "No, I'm not the one behind the attacks. Someone's using _my_ name to attack people at Hogwarts."

Zabini looked a little disappointed. "Then you're _not_ the one trying to rid the school of mudbloods?"

Harry scowled. "No, of course not. Hermione Granger is one of my best friends – why would I want to rid Hogwarts of muggleborns like her?" he snapped.

Zabini looked appropriately chastised.

"No," Harry continued, "Somebody's randomly attacking people, and, er, cats, using my name. And I need to find out who that is before they accidentally expose me. That's where you four come in."

They all looked confused at that.

"You don't really think I told you my secret to assuage your curiosity, did you?"

No one said a word, and Harry burst out laughing, making four of the six people in the room very uneasy. Theo, on the other hand, was used to Harry's mood swings by now.

"You did! Oh no, I'm sorry, I truly am, but my intentions weren't so benevolent."

The boys looked even more uneasy, now.

"I've done some research, and the Chamber _was_ opened back in 1943...I have reason to believe a dark artifact was behind it."

Theo gaped at him. Harry'd conveniently forgotten to mention that to him before then.

Zabini frowned. "A dark artifact?"

Harry nodded. "A small book. A diary, with the year 1942 printed on it. I believe there's a spirit inside that's possessing people and making them open the chamber. This is why I need your help. I can't go looking for it...I can't be drawing attention to myself right now. But you four...no one would suspect anything of me. You barely ever talk to me."

Crabbe and Goyle still looked completely confused and dumbstruck, but Zabini and Malfoy were now scowling at him.

"And why should we help you, Potter?" Malfoy said shakily.

"Because," Theo spoke up from behind him, "He's the Heir of Slytherin, Malfoy. You're Slytherins – would you really abandon Salazar Slytherin's heir when he needs your assistance?"

"Also," Harry put in, "As Malfoy knows, I've got a copy of _Magick Moste Evile_ , and I've already practised all the spells from the first chapter. My favourites are the ones that don't leave a mark." He smiled candidly.

The four boys paled a few shades, at that.

"So," he continued, "Have we reached an accord?"

Slowly, the four other boys nodded, and he felt Theo relax behind him.

"Now...I can't let any of you leave this room until you swear not to tell anyone what I've said to you."

Four frantic nods.

"Well, I'm glad you agree, but that's not good enough." He reached into the bag sitting on his bed, and withdrew a familiar piece of parchment. He drew his wand, performing a set of complex wand movements before placing the tip of his wand on the page.

"The events that have taken place in this room are not to be spoken of, written about, or symbolically portrayed in any way, shape, or form in the presence of a person not among Harry Potter, Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Gregory Goyle, and Vincent Crabbe. Seal thy lips lest they be sealed, stay thy hands lest they be stayed, from birth of unfaithfulness to death of shame."

With that, he withdrew his wand, and handed the parchment to Theo with the Blood Quill.

Knowing immediately what was expected of him, Theo performed the task without a second thought, handing the paper next to Zabini, who took it with great reluctance.

"What will it do?"

Harry smiled. "It's rather ingenious magic, actually. It binds a sequence of events in a specific time interval – fifteen minutes to be precise. Should you attempt to reproduce them in any way, you will literally be unable to talk or move until I explicitly perform the counter-curse and forgive you. Really, you have nothing to fear if you keep your word. Besides, if you don't take the oath, I'll just obliviate you...and I've never actually obliviated anyone before, and you can imaging how that might go over. So...it's probably best to just sign your name."

Zabini grimaced and signed his name, before passing it to Malfoy, who also reluctantly signed, after which Crabbe and Goyle did the same.

Harry smiled as he took the page from Goyle, and placed it back in his trunk.

"Now," he said, "Firstly, the oath has now been transferred to a secure location, so don't bother trying to burn the page – it won't do anything. Secondly, you obviously can't go talking to people about what was said here – what you can do is keep an eye out for anyone writing in a black diary. Ginny Weasley had it first, but I don't think she has it anymore. Zabini, Malfoy...I trust you might be able to find a way to subtly inquire about it...but Crabbe and Goyle, I think you'd better just keep an eye out. So...have we reached an understanding?"

There were several unsteady nods.

Harry beamed at them. "Brilliant! Now, I'm going to go take my lovely new friend outside where she'll be safe. Thank you all for your patience."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left.

* * *

Draco was in a daze. "Did that...really just happen?"

"Yup," Theo said, popping the p as he sat down on his bed, opening his transfiguration book again.

"Harry Potter...is the Heir of Slytherin."

"Yup."

"You knew?"

Theo smirked. "That my best friend is a powerful dark wizard in training who can speak to snakes? Yeah, I knew. I'm a Slytherin, Draco. I choose my friends wisely. I'd suggest you do the same."

Draco nodded slowly. "Did that...really just happen?"

"Yup."

"But did it really -"

"Honestly, Draco, if you were any slower, you'd be going backwards."

* * *

Chapter summary: Theo and Harry show off, Draco is cleverer than we thought he was, and Harry throws a temper tantrum, after which he blackmails his dormmates into doing his dirty work for him. And all in one evening!

Anyway, who will find the diary? When will they find it? Will it be too late? Stay tuned to find out (and review while you're at it)!


	33. Severus Snape (Part 3)

**Disclaimer:** I reiterate: I do not own anything of value here.

 **AN:** A few people brought up Tom's absence from the last couple of chapters, and I wanted to assure you that he shows up much more next chapter, and will play a significant part in the next few chapters - I didn't forget about him! As for this chapter, I wanted to do a quick peek behind the scenes before Christmas.

* * *

 **Chapter 33: Severus Snape (Part 3)**

He stared down his nose at Neville Longbottom – a Gryffindor so pathetic he almost felt bad about tormenting him...almost – lips curling into a sort of terrible grimace-laden smirk, reflecting the mixture of disgust and amusement coiling inside him.

"Longbottom," he said slowly, relishing the way the boy's face paled several shades as soon as he opened his mouth, "Did I _not_ say to _dice_ the toad eyes?"

"Y-y-yes s-sir..."

"And what are _you_ doing?"

"I...I d-don't know sir."

"Well then, Longbottom, since you clearly don't have the mental capacity to grasp your own actions, let me enlighten you – you are _mincing_ the toad eyes."

The boy let out a whimper. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Draco Malfoy snickering and whispering something to Vincent Crabbe.

"Now, _Longbottom_ , since you are clearly not able to grasp the very actions you take, I suppose I am right in assuming that you cannot possibly even begin to conceive of their consequences."

"...y-yes sir..."

His gaze snapped instantly from the quivering boy in front of him to his least favourite Slytherin to have ever existed.

"Potter!" he barked out, enjoying the way the boy started and went a little stiff. That never got old. "What would have happened had Longbottom added his _minced_ toad eyes to an infusion of peppermint oil and shredded adder's fang?"

The boy's eyes widened, and he could almost see the rapidly turning cogs of the boy's tangled mess of a brain gearing into overdrive.

"They would have instantly reacted with the excess acid left over from the reaction between the peppermint oil and the adder's fang, sir." The boy's voice was mechanical, grating to his ears.

"And?" he drawled.

"And best case scenario the compound would have doubled its acidity, expanded, and boiled over."

"And _worst case_?"

"It would have...exploded, sir," the boy said stiffly, sparing a hopeful glance at him. He almost scoffed. The boy seemed intent on winning his approval, despite the utter disdain he showed towards him on a regular basis. He knew for a fact that Harry Potter was reading at least two years ahead of everyone else, and not out of interest – no, the Potter boy was determined to answer every single rigged, trick, unfair question he launched at him. Usually, the boy was quite successful in catching whatever he threw at him – which made his own victories all the sweeter.

"And what would have happened, Potter, had the toad eyes been added _after_ the essence of oregano was mixed in?"

The cogs turned even faster, and the boy's eyes widened with every half-second he failed to supply an answer. His mouth opened and closed, words forming on his lips before dying away a moment later. "I...don't know..."

The boy, while still composed, had a faint look of devastation in his eyes.

There it was. Jackpot.

He allowed himself a small sneer. "Absolutely nothing."

The boy's mouth slowly formed an "oh" shape. "Yes, thank you sir."

Sneering again, he turned back to Longbottom, who was shaking in his seat, now. "Suffice it to say, Longbottom, that you have just been spared a trip to the hospital wing. Pity for the rest of us."

He scanned the classroom. "Well, what are you all waiting for? You have twenty four minutes left to brew."

He swept back to his desk and stood behind it, folding his arms as his eyes traveled from student to student. The first thing he observed was Nott patting Potter on the shoulder consolingly, whispering in his ear. It was rather ironic – Theodore Nott, a Death Eater's son, was nearly inseparable from the Boy Who Lived, and made a habit of following Potter around and policing his eating habits, which were still appalling; the child subsisted mostly off of fruit and small sandwiches, and still never showed up to meals without a book. Indeed, Nott and Potter seemed to be the best of friends. Sometimes he could not help but wonder what Nott Senior thought of this – he was, after all, a very...opinionated man. Suffice it to say he'd been relieved when Theodore Nott arrived at Hogwarts as a relatively sane, normal, eleven-year-old boy, as he had been with the Rosier girl and the Carrow twins; the four of them, despite having sadistic blood-purists as parents, seemed generally well adjusted, unlike muggle-raised Harry Potter, who was, frankly, a piece of work.

The boy was unusually polite; unnaturally consistent. Every day he showed up to breakfast looking exactly the same; every time he greeted his housemates and 'friends' his face remained constant, and it had occurred to him many times now that it might all be _practised_. Through his interactions with Potter and his casual observations of the boy's interactions with others, he'd come to the realization that the boy was utterly socially inept, which he was only somewhat successful at hiding. But hide it he did, and he was successful where it counted. His colleagues still loved the boy, and like his father before him, Harry Potter was confident in the knowledge that he had the entirety of the Hogwarts faculty under his thumb. When they looked at him, they saw a model Hogwarts student - a kind, polite boy with an eagerness to learn and talent on top of that; when he looked at Potter, however, he saw who he really was. Potter had a carefully crafted persona which no one seemed to see through, save him. The boy had perfect control of his reputation - top of his class, star quidditch player, friendly face - and clearly valued that control; hence the masked aloofness and the measured amicability so prominent in his behaviour; he knew he was in control, and he liked it. Clearly, his father's arrogance was starting to shine through; unlike his father, however, Potter was smart. He knew better than to make a spectacle of himself; he knew how to maintain control. He was truly a Slytherin, which, despite the boy's uniform, virtually everyone seemed to forget - yes, everyone conveniently overlooked the fact that Potter had all the makings of a perfect little sociopath. Whether he actually was one, was another question.

Oh well. It was too easy to get caught up in over-analyzing Harry Potter's behaviour; because loth as he was to admit it, he had yet to figure the boy out.

His eyes next travelled to Davis and Greengrass, who was, as usual, casting longing glances at Potter every two minutes, which the boy seemed oblivious to, as always. In front of them Granger was attempting to salvage the Weasley boy's attempts at brewing a half decent potion, looking rather frazzled. Malfoy was, as usual, successfully going through the motions of his current assignment, while Crabbe sat back and did nothing, much like Goyle was doing beside Bulstrode, who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there. Finnigan and Thomas sat behind them, chattering constantly – actually, they looked much too satisfied with themselves, he thought as he swept over to them, to smack them over their heads with the textbook in his hands.

"Focus!"

Properly chastised, the boys attempted to do just that.

Slowly stalking back to the head of the classroom, he observed with no small amount of smugness as students cowered in his wake. He hated children. He hated teaching. But he could not deny it – it _was_ satisfying.

* * *

"Headmaster," Severus said as he and Minerva followed the elderly man from Lockhart's office, "Those boys _are_ lying."

The old man chuckled. "Oh, I know Severus, I know."

"Then what is it you think happened, Albus?" Minerva asked, concern evident in her voice. "Surely they couldn't have been behind the petrification."

"That is, Minerva, a mystery to me. All that is for certain is that Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter did indeed arrive at the scene of the crime after the perpetrator had escaped."

"And yet, Headmaster, we have yet to explain why the boys were so far from both the Great Hall and the Slytherin Common Room."

"Ah, well, that is quite simple. Harry heard a voice, and went running after it."

"Albus!" Minerva exclaimed reproachfully, "You didn't!"

"Only briefly, Minerva, to ascertain their innocence."

"Then you learned nothing?" Severus interjected.

"I did not say that," the Headmaster said with a slight smile, "I did indeed learn something I did not expect to learn."

"Which is?" Minerva asked impatiently.

"Young Harry is quite an accomplished occlumens."

Severus had to keep himself from gaping. Potter? An occlumens? How was that even possible?

"Headmaster," he said sharply, "Are you saying...that you encountered a mental shield when you examined Potter's mind?"

"Oh, no – I found something far more interesting," the old man replied, sounding quite pleased, "You see, when I said that Harry is an accomplished occlumens, I meant just that. When I took a peek inside his mind, I met not a shield, but rather a barrage of false memories and emotions. It was a fair bit obvious, but still, impressive."

Severus could not help it – he was gaping at this point. Minerva wasn't doing much better.

"But how's that possible, Albus?" the old woman said frantically, "The boy's only been at Hogwarts for a year!"

"Ah, but you forget, Minerva, that Harry is, in fact, a very clever boy. With the right motivation, I have no doubt he would find himself most adept at the mind arts."

"But what motivation could a twelve-year-old boy possibly have to learn occlumency in such a short amount of time!?"

Severus said nothing, but he was thinking the same thing. His interest in occlumency did not make itself known until he was in his fourth year, and he was not at the level Potter had apparently reached until the summer before his NEWT year - and all this was because of his fervent desire to protect his mind from his...associates at the time. So why would Potter have become so obviously interested in the complex subject at the young age of eleven? Did the child have something to hide? Some shocking secret? But then again, knowing the quirky boy, that might not be it at all.

The Headmaster smiled grimly. "We all have things to hide, Minerva. Some of us more than others."

"But Albus! What could a boy of twelve have to hide?!"

"Well, Minerva, I daresay young Harry has done a good enough job of hiding that that will remain a mystery until he wishes otherwise."

"But this could be important, Albus!"

"It could...but perhaps not."

"His...personality _does_ suggest the possibility for obsessive or paranoid behaviour, Headmaster," he spoke up. It was true. The boy was socially inept, and yet clearly intent on controlling his interactions with others, suggesting he valued order and control to an unnatural extent. Again, budding sociopath, he couldn't help but think. But he daren't express his opinion with Minerva standing there.

The Headmaster smiled. "Well, there you have it, Minerva."

She scowled at both of them.

* * *

"A boy was petrified last night," Minerva commented as she sat down beside him at the staff table. "One of my Gryffindors. Colin Creevy."

"I heard," Severus said neutrally. He wasn't particularly fond of the timid Gryffindor, especially after he came asking for a picture on the first day of classes. Honestly, the nerve of these Gryffindors.

"And Mr. Potter," the woman continued looking very troubled, "Almost killed at the first Quidditch game of the season – again!"

He raised an eyebrow. "I would think you'd be relieved. After all, Gryffindor might start winning Quidditch games if Potter had been seriously maimed or killed."

Minerva gasped. "Severus! Don't joke like that – this is a student's life we're talking about. A Slytherin, no less!"

He huffed. "Potter's life."

She scowled at him. "I don't know why you're still so antagonistic toward the boy, Severus. He's studious, quiet, and polite – a model student. Nothing like his father!"

"Word has it, Minerva, that you are biased. I have heard that he does exceptionally well in your class...like his father."

"Just like he does exceptionally well in Charms, like his mother," the woman said pointedly.

Severus grimaced. "Only because he studies obsessively. The boy has no sense of moderation...like his father."

"And keen mind and sweet demeanour, like his mother."

Severus rolled his eyes. "Not as...'sweet' as he might seem, Minerva. I assure you that at least half of it's feigned."

"And how could you _possibly_ know something like that?"

"I do my job. I watch the boy. And I _don't_ like what I see."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Of course, you wouldn't."

* * *

"Headmaster," he said slowly as he entered his employer's cluttered office. "You wished to see me."

"Yes, Severus come. The duelling club last night, what happened?"

He blinked, caught off guard by the man's abruptness. Gathering himself, he sneered. "It was a disaster, as I expected it to be. Lockhart was completely incompetent, as usual, and -"

"But were there any fights?" the Headmaster interrupted, leaving him a little stunned again. "Between the older students."

"...no. Aside from some mulish brawling, there was nothing of note."

The man frowned. "And did anything else happen? Anything at all."

He paused. "There was one incident. Draco Malfoy cast _Serpensortia_ at Potter."

The Headmaster's gaze snapped toward him. "Was he bitten?"

"...no. He..."

"Yes, Severus?"

"He _tamed_ the creature."

The Headmaster narrowed his eyes. "Elaborate."

Severus grimaced, recalling the tenseness of the atmosphere when the large snake had shot out of Draco Malfoy's wand, belligerently slithering forward to glare at the students. "At first he looked...frightened, aghast, even...but then he went to his knees, and...held his hand out."

"And?"

"And the snake allowed him to _pet it_."

The Headmaster's gaze pierced him relentlessly. "He was able to calm the snake? Did he explain the creature's behaviour? At all?"

Severus's grimace grew. "He...claimed that, and I quote, 'animals love him'."

The elderly man's face had gone a shade lighter.

" _I can make animals do what I want without training them..."_ the man whispered.

"Headmaster?"

He snapped out of his reverie. "Yes, Severus, that is curious indeed. Very curious."

"Headmaster," he said with a frown, "Why? Why did you believe there had been an...altercation between older students?"

The old man's face was grim. "I felt...dark magic, last night, Severus. A burst of crude, powerful dark magic."

His eyes widened. "You believe it was a student?"

The man's eyebrows rose. "Who else could it be? It was surely none of the staff." He quirked an eyebrow. "Unless you have something to tell me, Severus."

He could not help it; he scoffed. "I dare say my magic has not been 'crude' in quite some time."

"Indeed, indeed. But that still leaves the question of whose magic it was.

He nodded. "Do you believe...it was the Heir of Slytherin, perhaps?"

"I fear that that may be the case. I had hoped you might have noticed something at the duelling club, but if there were not any incidences..."

"We still have no suspects."

"We do not. The Heir of Slytherin, whoever it might be, has successfully covered their tracks yet again."

"And have you at all been enlightened, Headmaster, of how we should...approach this problem?"

"I'm afraid not, Severus. I can only hope that some evidence may turn up before another attack occurs."

Severus grimaced. "A futile hope, most likely."

"Indeed, but there is not much we can do besides wait."

So wait they would.

* * *

Remember to let me know what you think!


	34. Term 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this, unfortunately.

 **AN:** A few of you have corrected me on my use of the word "loth". I want you to know that I'm not ignoring your corrections or anything, but I'm not going to change it because loth is indeed a word. It's a variant of loath which is a lot more unusual, but that's how I learned the word. Please keep correcting me, though! I really appreciate it.

* * *

 **Chapter 34: Term 2**

The day after 'Incident Number Three', as Harry now referred to it, Justin Finch-Fletchley was petrified, leaving Harry very unhappy indeed.

Apparently someone else had picked up the diary, and Tom Riddle (the younger) had acted quickly, leaving yet another of his classmates in the hospital wing. This time Nearly-Headless-Nick had been petrified as well, making it clear to Harry why no one had been killed yet – Mrs. Norris had looked at the basilisk's reflection in a puddle, Colin Creevy had seen it through his camera lens, and Finch-Fletchley met the creature's eyes through the wispy form of the Gryffindor Tower ghost. Clearly, it was all, as Professor McGonagall might say, sheer dumb luck, which had Harry thinking that by the time the next person was petrified, all the luck might have run out. The whole thing had him very anxious, and it was starting to affect his sleep – it took him an hour, sometimes more, to fall asleep these days, and on particularly bad nights, he only got a few hours. He'd actually fallen asleep in History of Magic a couple of times, leaving him so mortified that he was sure it would never happen again. Hopefully.

And that wasn't even the worst of it. Harry found out a couple of days after the attack that Hermione had fallen ill, and had been taken to the hospital wing with a fever after she collapsed in the Gryffindor Common Room. He and Theo visited her, but she hadn't really been up for talking – she left to visit her parents a day later, just as Theo left him as well.

And once again, as Christmas came and went, he was alone.

He spent a lot of time reading of course, enjoying the silence of the empty Slytherin Common Room, but that was not the highlight of his Christmas; no, the highlight was Tom's lessons. Tom had Harry request from the Room of Requirement a large room filled with mirrors, so that he could begin teaching Harry a charm called _Placo Ignis –_ the only known spell that could extinguish fiendfyre. After Harry's rather...magnificent destruction of the Room of Requirement after Incident Number Three, Tom had concluded that Harry had more aptitude for the dark arts than he initially realized, and insisted that Harry learn some serious dark magic over the holidays, when he didn't have children running around distracting him from the important things in life, like the dark arts.

"The presence of these...insects -"

Here, Harry had sighed.

"- has distracted us long enough. Human lives are fickle and frail, Harry, but the dark arts, ever-changing and everlasting, will be your companion for all of eternity."

"Umm...ok?"

Harry, as always, was a little uneasy about the whole thing. Some of the curses Tom was teaching him were really awful. Sure, bone-breaking and de-fingering and fingernail-expelling were all very interesting to Harry, but they didn't hold a candle to what Tom wanted to teach him. _Evoco Pavor_ was known to make a person so scared they'd scratch their own eyes out, and _Excorio_ was a skin-flaying curse; _Venter Fervo_ boiled the contents of a person's stomach. He, of course, hadn't mastered these difficult curses yet, but he had to wonder when something like that would ever come in handy. He'd hate to flay someone – it sounded like a really mean thing to do.

He'd said as much, and had been ridiculed.

"Your simple-mindedness is astounding."

None of the curses Tom tried to teach him, however, scared him as much as the prospect of casting fiendfyre. Notoriously hard to control and extremely dangerous, fiendfyre was relatively easy to cast but nearly impossible to tame, and many a dark witch or wizard had met their end at the hands of their own mis-cast cursed fire. Harry didn't really have enough confidence in himself to even begin to go about conjuring cursed fire, though Tom seemed to be very blase about the whole thing.

"Fiendfyre is essential in any skilled dark wizard's arsenal – you'll have to learn it eventually. We might as well start early."

"But...what if I...burn down Hogwarts or something?"

Tom had not dignified that with an answer.

And that wasn't to say they weren't taking precautions; indeed, Harry was supposed to be able to cast _Placo Ignis_ in his sleep before he even attempted to conjure fiendfyre...but the whole thing still made him very nervous.

Aside from giving the chance to dedicate more time to his dark arts training, Christmas also gave Harry and Tom the time they needed to work out what they were going to do about Tom's diary. To be fair, they already had decided that the diary was a problem, but the extra time to consider the whole affair truly solidified their intentions.

"So what you're saying is...we can't have all three of us running around," Harry said, "Voldemort 1.0, us, and diary-Tom – someone's going to mess something up."

"Correct, and it will no doubt be my sixteen-year-old self. I was impatient, rash, and far too passionate and idealistic back then – he will not sit quietly and let things unfold, which is an essential strategy at this point. My master soul must regain its body on its own, and the the horcruxes must remain hidden and secret, away from prying eyes and meddling hands."

Harry sighed. "I don't know what else I can do. I can't start asking around about the diary, and I can't have Hermione or Theo do it either – it will draw too much attention."

Tom shook his head. "There is nothing to be done for now. Putting more effort into this will not serve us in the long run. Our own safety and secrecy is crucial. The diary will resurface on its own eventually."

"But what if it remains lost forever?"

"As much as it troubles me to not know the location of one of my horcruxes, we can at least be comforted in the knowledge that if it is lost it is safe, but it will not come to that."

"Why not?"

"I was foolish, in my youth. When I created my first horcrux, I designed a magical object that would carry out my will as an extension of myself, when I should have forged it with the sole purpose of hiding it. But the damage has already been done."

"Damage?"

"It will not remain hidden; it wants to be found, Harry."

"Like the Ring?"

"I assure you the ring is very well hidden, and is content to remain that way."

"No, the – oh, never mind."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "As I said, it wants to be found. It wants to be opened, confided in, and fed. Believe me, we have not seen the last of it."

Harry grimaced. "Too bad."

"Indeed."

Wait for someone to find the diary, have someone else steal it for him, and then lock it away - that's all they had to do, right? It was one of their simpler plans, all things considered; what could go wrong?

* * *

"Have you had anymore dreams yet, about your animal forms?" Hermione asked, somewhat faintly. She was still recovering from her fever, and still seemed a little sickly. "My dreams are always in the dark. I have fur, but that's all I know."

Harry shook his head. "Still just the tree. I can tell that I either have long fur or feathers, but I don't know anything else, yet. You, Theo?"

He shook his head. "Running through the grass. That's just about it."

Hermione huffed, frustrated. "It's already been a month since we got rid of the mandrake leaves, and still no luck. I think we give it another two months, and if we still have nothing, we should brew the potion."

Harry shrugged. "You've done the most reading, so it's your call. How long does the potion take to brew?"

"About four weeks, and then it needs to be drunk once a day for three weeks."

Theo heaved a great sigh. "This takes _so long_. Why don't we just brew the potion now, just in case?"

Hermione glared at him. "You're the one who said this could take years. And we'll hold off on making the potion as long as we can."

"Why?"

"Because if we want to brew it, we'll have to steal potions ingredients from Professor Snape. I already checked. We only have access to a few of them."

Both boys blanched, at that.

"Well, then," Theo concluded. "That's it then? We can go duel now?"

"Actually," Harry said, "There's one more thing I wanted to talk about."

"Which is...?"

"Expanding our study group."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think we should have a name first?"

"I agree," Hermione said blandly.

Harry shook his head. "I don't mean right now. But in the future..."

Theo shook his head. "Why can't it just be the three of us?"

"No, I agree with Harry," Hermione said, "It could actually good, having more people – more people means more people to come up with ideas, do research. Plus...I rather like the idea of teaching our classmates how to protect themselves better. I think it's the right thing to do."

Theo snorted. "'Teaching Hogwarts students the dark arts – it's the right thing to do', a quote by Hermione Granger."

She huffed, annoyed. "You know what I mean."

Theo shrugged. "It's not like they're learning anything in Defence against the Dark Arts, after all."

"Exactly."

"So glad you agree with me."

Hermione ignored him and started to rant. "Honestly, there must be _something_ Professor Lockhart can teach us, as incompetent as he might be. I mean, all those books, they can't be all completely made up! There's got to be _something._ "

"Then why doesn't he get on with it already?"

Her scowl deepened, and Harry put his head in his hands, not wanting to devote much thought to the aberration that was Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Can we get back to what we were talking about?"

The other two nodded reluctantly.

"I think," Harry began, "That anyone who wants to join our group needs to learn occlumency first."

"Sounds reasonable," Theo said. "We had to do the same."

Hermione frowned. "That will exclude a lot of people."

Harry nodded. "But the whole point of our group is to keep each other's secrets. If someone can't do that, they don't really belong here, do they?"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Isn't there some kind of contract you could get them to sign? Something that would prevent them from giving anything away?"

Harry shook his head. "If there is, I'm not skilled enough to craft it yet."

"What about that oath you made Draco and the others swear?"

Hermione blinked. "You made Malfoy swear an oath?"

Harry nodded slowly, not really liking the direction of the conversation. "It won't prevent someone from picking the events out of their heads if they know what to look for – plus, it's a really restrictive and not very useful when it comes to more general things."

"Wait, why did you make Malfoy swear an oath?"

"There's this diary he has them looking for."

Hermione's eyes snapped toward Harry. "You mean _the..._ you know... _it_?"

"If by it you mean the diary," Harry said, "Then yes."

"Wait - _t_ _he_ diary?" Theo exclaimed, "Does everyone know about this thing but me?"

Harry sighed. "Its a dark artifact...I think it's responsible for opening the Chamber of Secrets."

Hermione's eyes widened and she paled drastically. "Are you sure?"

Harry nodded. "Pretty sure. Again, I can't share details until I know you two can protect your minds well enough, but there's a spirit, I think, possessing the diary, that makes people open the Chamber. It was opened fifty years ago, you see."

"Fifty years ago...1943," Hermione breathed.

Harry nodded.

"What I don't get is how you know this," Theo stated.

Harry looked between them uneasily. "Well, that's the thing...that's the big secret. That's what I can't have anyone finding out. I'll tell you...but not now. Please...don't ask. Please."

His friends nodded slowly.

"When you're ready to share your secret, though," Hermione said softly, "We'll be here."

"You keep our secrets," Theo agreed, "So we'll keep yours."

* * *

Harry was starting to get very nervous.

The first attack had been on Halloween – Filch's cat; the next attack followed a little more than a week later – but this time it was a person petrified: Colin Creevy. Then, a little more than a month later, a second student had been petrified. And it was just going to get worse. Tom Riddle would get excited, impatient, and would start engineering more attacks at a faster pace. Harry was convinced that things would begin to escalate – there would be another attack within a month.

Except there wasn't.

Malfoy, Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle were all coming up short in their search for the diary, but at the same time, there were no attacks, prompting Harry to believe that the diary really was lost, now. He would have been convinced of this, were it not for the fact that one attack occurred after Hermione said it had been lost. Had someone successfully resisted the urge to write in the diary? Had someone figured out what it did? Was someone hiding it? Or was it thrown away again?

Suffice it to say, Harry was both relieved and concerned when no attacks occurred within the following two months. Tom was only concerned.

 _:Lucius Malfoy will pay for getting my horcrux lost,:_ he'd hissed angrily multiple times now.

Harry had no objection to this. Honestly, what was the man thinking? He planted a dark artifact given to him by Lord Voldemort himself on one of the Weasley children, to let it wreak havoc at the school where his son was attending. Surely he knew how risky it was – surely he was aware of how much could go wrong. And go wrong it had – there was no sign of the diary and no attacks; January and February passed quietly. Well, almost, anyway. February 14th was by no means quiet.

It started like any other day.

Harry woke before all the other boys in his dorm, sought out the bathroom, showered, and went about the hopeless task of taming his wild jet-black locks while looking at Tom's incredibly bored face in the mirror.

Once he was semi-satisfied with his hair, he got dressed, tied his tie, and headed back to his dorm room to find the other five boys rolling out of bed.

"Good morning," he greeted cheerily, like he did every morning.

"Good morning yourself," Theo growled as he searched for a missing sock.

Zabini and Malfoy were glaring at him, as usual, and Crabbe and Goyle weren't awake yet...well, were more asleep than usual, he supposed he could say.

They left their room between 7:45 and 8:12, as usual, took the same route to their breakfast table, as usual, but what was not at all usual was the decor of the Great Hall. The walls were plastered with enormous, garishly pink flowers, and heart-shaped confetti was falling from the sky above them.

"What's...going on?" Harry asked, freezing in the doorway of the Great Hall, panic fluttering in his chest. He didn't know why, but he had a very bad feeling about all the...pink.

"Don't you know? It's Valentine's Day," Theo said.

"But...this didn't happen last year."

"No, no it did not. A galleon says it's the blonde terror's doing."

The other boys snorted at Theo's comment.

Harry glanced at the staff table. Sure enough, Lockhart looked thrilled with himself, and Professor Dumbledore looked very amused, but everyone else was far from pleased. Professor McGonagall's face was twitching, and Professor Snape...well, he looked positively murderous, which wasn't all that unusual these days. Harry did pity whoever had double Potions that day, though.

Harry was cautious as he sat down at the Slytherin table, having brushed off his seat first. He plucked confetti out of his hair as he lamented the fact that the bowl of strawberries he purposefully sat across from every morning was polluted with pink pieces of paper.

Once the Great Hall had mostly filled itself with bewildered and/or giddy students, Lockhart stood up at the staff table, bellowing happily, "Happy Valentine's Day! And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all – and it doesn't end here!"

The man clapped his hands, and through the doors marched a dozen or so dwarfs, all of them wearing gaudy gold wings and carrying harps.

"My friendly, card-carrying cupids!" The man beamed, clearly very proud of himself. "They will be roving around the school today delivering your Valentines! And the fun doesn't stop here! I'm sure my colleagues will want to enter the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion!"

The entire Great Hall paled a few shades at that.

"And while you're at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I've ever met, the sly old dog!"

Harry couldn't help it. He gaped. The pink, the dwarves, the love potions and enchantments and the valentines – it was all too much. He didn't care what Tom said – there _was_ true evil in the world, and this is what it looked like. Harry didn't understand it, and he didn't want to. All he knew is that all of this... _stuff_...filled him with a sense of inexplicable dread, and unexplained, fervent dread is always what Harry imagined evil might be like.

Tom clearly crafted his famous words before ever hearing the name Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Harry...mate...you ok?"

It was Theo, questioning him in between bites of bacon.

"No..." he whispered. "I feel like I've discovered something new about human nature that I would have rather remained ignorant of."

Theo's eyebrows had disappeared above his fringe. "Yeah, that sounds like a definite no to me. Come on, it'll be ok. Look, I'll help you dust off some of your strawberries."

"Not hungry."

"Perhaps I can change your mind."

Harry spun around to find Daphne standing behind him, extending a red heart-shaped box toward him.

"Valentine's Day chocolate," she said sweetly.

"You're making it worse," Theo hissed.

Daphne glared at him. "It's chocolate! How can that make anything _worse_?" she snapped.

Harry looked at her warily. "You do realize that this is a religious holiday in honour of a man that got beaten to the brink of death and then beheaded, right?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Just take the chocolates, Harry."

"Seriously," Theo put in, "If you don't, I will."

"You _will not_ ," Daphne snapped at him.

Harry cautiously took the box, and did his very best to offer a gracious smile. "Thank you, Daphne, for the gift. I apologize that I didn't get you anything in return. My understanding is that gifts given on holidays are supposed to be reciprocated."

Daphne blushed vividly, and Theo's head was in his hands.

The rest of the day was at least as dreadful as breakfast. Dwarves kept bursting into their classrooms to deliver valentines, trying everyone's patience. Even Professor McGonagall lost her composure eventually.

"That's it! Out! Out! Or I'll transfigure all of you into toads!"

Harry was terribly irritated about the whole thing, but he thought he would make it through...until one of the dwarves found him.

"Oy, you! 'Arry Potter! I've got a musical message to deliver to 'Arry Potter in person," he croaked out, twanging his harp ominously.

Harry froze, mouth agape.

Taking his silence as acceptance, the dwarf said, "Right, here is your singing valentine:

 _'His eyes are as green as -'"_

" _Stupefy!"_

Harry had acted on pure instinct, but he felt some relief when the gold-gilded dwarf hit the ground like a sack of bricks.

He didn't know whether to be pleased with himself for quick thinking or disappointed over his loss of control. He didn't feel bad about it, though. Not one bit. The dwarf was an agent of evil, after all.

"What's going on here!"

It was Percy Weasley, Ron's older brother. Upon seeing the odd scene before him, he stopped short.

"He just fell over," Harry stated matter-of-factly.

"It's true," Theo piped up from behind him, "Just had a fit or something."

Percy looked at the other students, who, clearly feeling fed up with the whole singing dwarf thing, nodded in confirmation.

"Well then," the prefect said, looking quite flustered, "Off you go then, I'll take care of this."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, and escaped as soon as he could.

"That was brilliant," Ron Weasley said as he passed him in the corridor.

Harry was glad someone was pleased.

So...yes, after _that day_ as Harry had taken to calling it, nothing much had happened – no attacks, petrifications, or deaths of any sort. It was peaceful.

Classes went on as usual, and You-Know-What met for their weekly duels. Animagus training, unfortunately, was put on hold again, because Hermione insisted they try the mandrake leaves again; she _really_ didn't want to brew that potion.

"It's extraordinarily complex," she'd said, flustered, "And we can't afford to waste ingredients, if we're stealing them from Professor Snape."

Luckily, they had a lot of other things to keep them busy. Hermione insisted on having them prepared for exams by mid April, which Theo grudgingly agreed to, and Harry had loads of spells he wanted to teach them. _Nonstatera_ was a hex that caused people to lose their balance, which Harry was eager to add to their arsenal, because unlike _exacuere_ (the slicing curse) and _perdo digita_ (the defingering curse), they could afford to use it in duels without fear of causing serious harm. Still, as they started to brew more healing potions (well, the few they had the skills to brew, anyway), their dueling techniques grew more and more reckless, which Harry was both pleased with and worried about. Sure, it was much more fun not having to aim curses at the ground in front of someone instead of straight at them, and using a wider variety of curses made dueling much more interesting, but he didn't want to explain lost appendages or serious burns to Madame Pomfrey. In the end though, the harsher their duels, the quicker Hermione and Theo would learn, so all and all, he supposed it was for the best.

The excitement of dueling practice and the absence of any attacks made March and April fly by quickly, and Harry and his classmates were happy to forget about the petrifications, the Chamber of Secrets, and Slytherin's moster. Until May 8th.

Harry had been on his way to the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff Quidditch match, the fifth year potions text in his hand and Ron and Theo by his side; Ron had coaxed them into cheering for Gryffindor. Harry was pretty sure that Theo was going to betray Ron and cheer for Hufflepuff, but either way, it promised to be an amusing affair.

They were about to find a seat, when Professor McGonagall came half-marching, half-running across the pitch, carrying a huge purple megaphone.

"The match has been cancelled," the woman announced, completely ignoring the boos and shouts. Oliver Wood and the Weasley twins looked absolutely devastated.

"All students are to make their way back to their House Common Rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please!"

The woman lowered the megaphone, and Harry's stomach dropped as she walked over to them.

"Potter, Nott, Weasley, I think you'd better come with me."

Weaving in between the disappointed and concerned students, Harry, Theo, and Ron followed behind the professor with puzzled looks on their faces.

"This will be a bit of a shock," the professor said gently, "There has been another attack...a double attack."

All the breath escaped Harry's lungs. A _double_ attack? Why did it escalate so quickly? After four months of nothing...

Theo looked at him concernedly.

When they arrived at the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey was bending over an older girl with blonde curly hair, who Harry only barely recognized, and he had to wonder why Professor McGonagall had thought to alert them specifically. But then his eyes travelled slowly to the left...

"Hermione!" Ron gasped out beside him.

Harry went cold. Hermione...?

No. No.

"She's alive, right?" he cried out frantically, not at all caring how pathetic he sounded.

Professor McGonagall looked at him with pity in her eyes. "Yes, Mr. Potter, she's alive...only petrified. They were found near the library." She held out a small object – a small, circular mirror. "I don't suppose any of you can explain this? It was on the floor next to them."

Harry's heart leapt. Hermione...his brilliant, brilliant friend. She'd figured it out.

"We also found a note in her hand." Professor McGonagall held out a small letter. "But it's...gibberish."

Harry stared at the piece of paper. "I'll take it," he said instantly.

Professor McGonagall frowned at him, but handed it to him nonetheless.

"I will escort you back to your Common Rooms, now."

* * *

Well, there it is. Next chapter, the pieces will all fall together. Any guesses how things will play out? Let me know in a review!


	35. Revelations

**Disclaimer:**

 **AN:** As I aluded to last chapter, Tom's diary behaves a little differently in my fic than it does in canon. It has a kind of compulsion spell on it that tries to convince people to write in it, even when they originally didn't mean to. The problem here, of course, is that the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle who cast it would have had no way to know how powerfully this spell might effect 11 and 12 year olds who still have very impressionable minds. What I'm trying to explicitly say is that by sending people after the diary, Harry is kind of screwing them over accidentally, hence the events revealed in this chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 35: Revelations**

Harry stared at the letter with a frown.

 _Efbs Ibssz,_

 _J'n btibnfe ju uppl nf uijt mpoh up gjhvsf uijt pvu, ftqfdjbmmz hjwfo ipx nz cftu gsjfoe jt pctfttfe xjui nbhjdbm pbuit. Uifsf't tpnfuijoh J'wf cffo nfbojoh up ufmm zpv, gps tfwfsbm npouit opx, cvu J ibwfo'u gpvoe b xbz ipx, voujm opx._

 _J gpvoe uif ejbsz. Ju xbt dsfbufe cz b Iphxbsut tuvefou obnfe Upn Sjeemf, boe if ibt cffo vtjoh uif ejbsz up dpfsdf tuvefout joup pqfojoh uif Dibncfs pg Tfdsfut. J xbt pof pg uiftf tuvefout._

 _J nbef uif njtublf pg xsjujoh jo uif ejbsz - ju xbt uif tusbohftu uijoh; J kvtu dpvmeo'u uijol bcpvu bozuijoh fmtf voujm J eje tp - boe cfgpsf J lofx ju, J xboufe up lffq ju up nztfmg mpohfs, kvtu b mjuumf mpohfs, boe efmbz hjwjoh ju up zpv...tp J upme zpv uibu J dpvmeo'u gjoe ju. J mjfe, boe J'n tpssz; J epo'u lopx xibu dbnf pwfs nf. J epo'u uijol J xbt jo nz sjhiu njoe._

 _Bozxbz, tppo bgufs J nfu Upn (xip xspuf cbdl xifo J xspuf jo uif ejbsz), uif Dibncfs xbt pqfofe podf npsf, boe J ibe b ivhf cmbol jo nz nfnpsz. Xifo J gjhvsfe pvu xibu ibqqfofe, J btlfe Upn bcpvu ju, boe uisfbufofe up iboe uif cppl pwfs up uif ufbdifst. If ebsfe nf up usz, boe J eje...boe uifo J usjfe up ufmm zpv...J gbjmfe. Fwfsz ujnf J usjfe up ubml up tpnfpof, J gpvoe nztfmg opu xboujoh up boznpsf, boe fwfsz ujnf J tubsufe up xsjuf uif xpset J xboufe up tbz epxo, nz iboe xpvme tjfaf vq. Ju xbt nbeefojoh._

 _Upn Sjeemf jt wfsz qfstvbtjwf, boe usjdlfe nf joup xsjujoh nz xipmf obnf jo uif ejbsz. J ibwfo'u cffo bcmf up ubml ps xsjuf bcpvu ju tjodf,_ _tp J uijol tpnf tpsu pg pbui xbt xpwfo joup uif ejbsz't tqfmm xpsl_ _. Cvu kvtu mbtu ojhiu J gjhvsfe ju pvu – jg J xsjuf jo dpef, J dbo xsjuf bozuijoh J xbou. B tjmmz mppq ipmf, J lopx._

 _J'wf usjfe up gjoe b xbz up eftuspz ju, cvu J ibwfo'u ibe boz mvdl, tp J eje uif ofyu cftu uijoh; J lfqu ju jo uif cpuupn pg nz usvol bmm ufsn. Upn xbt op epvcu wfsz voibqqz bcpvu uijt, boe J tvtqfdu if xbt uif pof xip dbvtfe nz jmmoftt jo Efdfncfs...tpnfipx. Eftqjuf uibu, ju xpslfe; J sftjtufe uif vshf up xsjuf, boe uif buubdlt tupqqfe. Vogpsuvobufmz, J uppl ju pvu kvtu uif puifs ebz up csjoh xjui nf up Zpv-Lopx-Xifsf tp J dpvme ep tpnf uftut, boe Hjooz Xfbtmfz tbx ju – J cfmjfwf tif't tupmfo ju cbdl. Uif Dibncfs pg Tfdsfut xjmm cf pqfofe podf bhbjo._

 _Qmfbtf ufmm b ufbdifs, cfgpsf tpnfpof fmtf hfut ivsu._

 _Ifsnjpof_

Theo looked over his shoulder.

"Do you think it means anything?"

Harry scowled. "Of course it means something. Look at the second word."

"Ibssz?" Theo asked, puzzled.

"Harry," Harry said impatiently. "It's my name."

Theo just looked bewildered. "Whatever you say, mate."

Harry sighed. "It's a simple substitution cipher. It will be easy to decrypt. I'll...do it in the morning."

Of course, he didn't. As soon as his dorm mates fell asleep, he cast a _"Lumos,_ " and began to translate the letter. It didn't take long, seeing as the key was 1; Harry honestly expected something more from Hermione - maybe a polyalphabetic cipher or _something_ \- which left hims with an uneasy feeling that the letter was written under duress. His fears were confirmed when he began translating.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I'm ashamed it took me this long to figure this out, especially given how my best friend is obsessed with magical oaths. There's something I've been meaning to tell you, for several months now, but I haven't found a way how, until now._

 _I found the diary. It was created by a Hogwarts student named Tom Riddle, and he has been using the diary to coerce students into opening the Chamber of Secrets. I was one of these students._

 _I made the mistake of writing in the diary - it was the strangest thing; I just couldn't think about anything else until I did so - and before I knew it, I wanted to keep it to myself longer, just a little longer, and delay giving it to you...so I told you that I couldn't find it. I lied, and I'm sorry; I don't know what came over me. I don't think I was in my right mind._

 _Anyway, soon after I met Tom (who wrote back when I wrote in the diary), the Chamber was opened once more, and I had a huge blank in my memory. When I figured out what happened, I asked Tom about it, and threatened to hand the book over to the teachers. He dared me to try, and I did...and then I tried to tell you...I failed. Every time I tried to talk to someone, I found myself not wanting to anymore, and every time I started to write the words I wanted to say down, my hand would sieze up. It was maddening._

 _Tom Riddle is very persuasive, and tricked me into writing my whole name in the diary. I haven't been able to talk or write about it since, so I think some sort of oath was woven into the diary's spell work. But just last night I figured it out – if I write in code, I can write anything I want. A silly loop hole, I know._

 _I've tried to find a way to destroy it, but I haven't had any luck, so I did the next best thing; I kept it in the bottom of my trunk all term. Tom was no doubt very unhappy about this, and I suspect he was the one who caused my illness in December...somehow. Despite that, it worked; I resisted the urge to write, and the attacks stopped. Unfortunately, I took it out just the other day to bring with me to You-Know-Where so I could do some tests, and Ginny Weasley saw it – I believe she's stolen it back. The Chamber of Secrets will be opened once again._

 _Please tell a teacher, before someone else gets hurt._

 _Hermione_

"Please tell a teacher, before someone else get's hurt," Harry whispered. "Stupid Gryffindor."

He furiously rubbed his stinging eyes, gritting his teeth angrily as the note wrinkled between his quivering fingers. Hermione...all this time...had been suffering for months, alone. Suffering, because she did the job he gave her. Suffering, because of Lucius Malfoy's stupid plot. Suffering...but really, there was only one person to blame. It was all Tom Riddle's fault.

 _:He's going to pay_ ,: Harry hissed into Tom's mirror after he'd translated the message. _:He's never getting out of that diary_.:

Tom only shrugged. _:Do what you will. It matters not to me. He's caused far too much trouble.:_

Truth be told, Harry was never too fond of the teenage Tom Riddle he saw in his memories. He wasn't as straightforward as his younger self, not as caught up in his awe at the wonders of magic, but he didn't have the power, dignity, and well-earned respect that Lord Voldemort had. He was just an arrogant boy in the awkward stages of transforming into a most terrifying man that was Lord Voldemort.

No, Harry had never been particularly fond of sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle, but he'd never thought much of it. He'd never really had the opportunity to _dislike_ the boy his best friend once was. But now...he was quite sure that he never wanted to meet him, and would be perfectly happy throwing the diary in a deep pit, never to see the light of day or feel the touch of a human ever again. And somehow, given how irritated Tom had gradually become with his younger self, he didn't think his best friend would mind.

* * *

The next morning, Theo wasted no time in inquiring about Hermione's letter.

"Do you know what it says?" he asked lowly on their way to breakfast.

Harry nodded subtly. "Ginny Weasley has the diary, most likely."

Theo grimaced. "The Weasley girl? Do you want me to..."

Harry shook his head quickly. "I'm taking matters into my own hands. I'll watch her for a couple of days, and find a time to catch her when she's alone."

"Bloody hell, Harry, you make it sound like you're going to murder her."

"Well, that's certainly not the plan," Harry said as they entered the Great Hall.

"Let's hope not."

Harry smiled a bit, eyes scanning the Great Hall as they approached the Slytherin table. But upon looking around, he noticed an event (or rather lack of an event) that had never occurred before; Professor Dumbledore had not shown up for breakfast.

"I wonder where he is..."

"Who?" Theo said through a mouthful of bacon, as he dutifully piled strawberries onto Harry's plate.

"Professor Dumbledore."

"Haven't you heard?" Parkinson was smirking across the table. "Draco's father had him suspended as Headmaster."

Malfoy looked very smug, at that.

Harry blinked. "Why?"

"Well he hasn't exactly done much to stop these attacks, has he?" Tracey pointed out.

Harry frowned. "You can't know that. It's not like we're told everything the teachers are up to."

"Well I say good riddance," Parkinson said loudly.

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Nobody cares what you say, Pansy."

"And you know what else," Parkinson continued, ignoring Theo, "They took that oaf, Hagrid away too. Locked him up in Azkaban. Apparently this wasn't the first time these attacks took place, and _last_ time, it was that half giant who did it."

Surprised glances flickered across the table, and Harry paled a few shades. Poor Hagrid; framed not once, but twice. First Hermione petrified, then the Headmaster removed, then Hagrid in Azkaban...things were devolving quickly.

Despite all that, though, everything else was strangely...normal. Classes continued as usual, with the main difference being that after every class their professor would escort them to their next lesson, which was a bit tedious, but made sense and was a relatively insignificant inconvenience nonetheless.

The regular escorts, however, made it very difficult to contact Ginny Weasley. The students weren't allowed much time alone – only a couple hours in the courtyard and the library daily. Fortunately, Harry quickly noticed that the ginger-haired girl was spending her afternoons in the library, and was, despite the mannerisms of her older brothers, actually quite solitary (though, Tom Riddle probably had something to do with this), so he figured one such afternoon spent in the library would be the optimal time to approach her.

So, on Thursday afternoon, he found her diligently searching between shelves. When he saw the panicked look on her face, his heart sunk.

"Ginny Weasley?"

She spun around, eyes wide and face pale.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Have you lost something?"

She shook her head frantically.

"Do you need help?"

Her eyes went even wider, but she didn't dare make a sound.

He grimaced. This was going nowhere. Perhaps he needed to be more blunt. "Did you lose it?"

She flinched, but said nothing, so he continued. "The diary, you stole it back from Hermione. Did you lose it?"

Her lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.

"It's ok." He tried to sound comforting. "I know about it...about Tom. I know what he made you do."

She was hyperventilating now, and looked to be on the verge of tears.

"It's ok," he said quickly, "I understand...I'm not going to tell anyone. I promise."

"Really?" she whispered.

He nodded. "Really. It's ok, Ginny. You can trust me."

"How did you know?" she mumbled.

"I...it's a long story. But I need to find that diary...and when I find it, I can get rid of it, for good. Tom will never hurt you again."

Tears were running down her cheeks at this point, and if Harry was being perfectly honest, he'd have to admit it was making him rather uncomfortable.

"Please...I'm sorry...I didn't mean any of it..."

Still feeling very awkward, rather like when he had been trying to get Dobby to calm down, he took a deep breath and took her hand in his, causing her face to light up in a bright red blush. "It's ok. It wasn't your fault," he said with the most sympathetic smile he could muster. "It wasn't your fault...but I need the diary, Ginny, so I can get rid of it. So it can never hurt anyone else ever again."

She shook her head. "I don't know where it went," she sobbed, "I left it in my book bag, and when I got back, it was gone. I've been looking for it for days now..."

Harry fought to keep a sigh of frustration down. "Do you have any idea where it went?"

"I...I think someone stole it."

"Do you know who?"

He could tell he asked just a bit too quickly, because she flinched, and shook her head mutely.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded.

He nodded back, slowly. "I...see. Alright, well, tell me if you find it...I'll look as well."

She sniffled and nodded again.

"It'll be ok," he said, half to himself, "I'll find it and get rid of it."

"Thank you..." she whispered.

"Of course." He looked her in the eye sternly. "I'll keep your secret, Ginny, but you must keep mine as well."

She nodded frantically.

"So you swear that you will relay to no one, in spoken or written word, gesture, or otherwise, the contents of this conversation?"

Another frantic nod.

"Alright." He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and tapped it with his wand twice. He'd spelled the page the day before – it had been a tiring and complicated spell, to circumvent the need for his Blood Quill, but he managed it in the end, leaving him feeling quite accomplished and self-satisfied. "Then can you sign your name on this piece of paper? It just makes sure we keep each other's secrets."

Without hesitation, she took a quill out of her bag and signed it.

He smiled at her. "Thank you. Everything will be alright."

So he was back to square one – the diary was lost, its owner unknown, and he was stuck relying on Malfoy, Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle to look for it for him.

Perfect.

* * *

Harry looked on with a frown as Professor Snape swept into the Common Room with a scowl that was oddly frazzled - almost afraid, if Harry didn't know better - and stalked over to Hortense, who proceeded to go speak to the other prefects. His frown deepened when they began to call roll.

Had something happened? Had someone gone missing?

As soon as his name was called, he wasted no time in running to his dorm room and pulling his invisibility cloak out of his trunk. Throwing it over himself and placing his spare wand (Tom's wand) in his pocket, he sprinted back into the common room slipping out the portrait hole just as Professor Snape was leaving.

Nearly holding his breath, he was perfectly silent as he followed Professor Snape, up a multitude of staircases, trying to stay as far behind as possible without losing the professor down one of the many corridors that branched off to the sides. Eventually, they slowed down as they came toward what Harry recognized as the staff room, where all the other faculty members were gathered, with fidgeting hands and ashen faces.

"It has happened," Professor McGonagall was announcing as soon as Professor Snape entered, "A student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself."

The reaction was instantaneous. Gasps and moans filled the room, and Harry could swear the temperature dropped a few degrees.

"The Heir of Slytherin," Professor McGonagall continued, her face deathly pale, "Left another message. Right underneath the first one – _His skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever."_

Poor Professor Flitwick burst into tears, at that.

"Who is it?" Madame Hooch said, slumped in her chair. "Which student?"

"I'm not -"

"I checked the Slytherin dormitories, as soon as you contacted me," Professor Snape cut in softly, his face almost serene. It was almost eerie, after having seen him looking so irate just a few minutes before. "Draco Malfoy is missing."

Harry's eyes widened as gasps filled the room once again.

"Malfoy?" Professor McGongall asked, shocked. "But he's a pureblood, and a Slytherin, no less!"

"Monsters tend to care less and less about blood and houses as time wears on," Professor Snape said pointedly, a dark look on his face.

Harry still couldn't believe it. The irony was incredible. After all of Lucius Malfoy's scheming – it was his son who became the final victim. Lucius Malfoy had unwittingly sacrificed his only son's life to bring Voldemort - a weaker, younger, more foolish Voldemort - back to life. It was almost poetic in a way, he could not help but think as his heart beat quickly in his chest. Malfoy...was a lot of things, but he didn't deserve to die. Harry couldn't let that happen, not when he was the reason the other boy sought out the diary. Yes, Draco Malfoy was a lot of things, but he deserved a chance to be so much more than that.

Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall sighed shakily. "We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow," she said, "This is the end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said -"

At that moment, the staff room door was thrown open, and Lockhart came bustling through with a brilliant grin on his face.

"So sorry – dozed off – what have I missed?"

He was, as usual, completely oblivious to the hateful glares being directed his way, which were much more baleful than usual.

No one said anything, until Professor Snape stepped forward, a cruel look in his eye.

"Just the man – the very man. One of _my students_ ," Professor Snape said the words with venom in his voice, "Has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come at last."

The blonde man blanched instantly.

"That's right, Gilderoy," Professor Sprout chipped in, "Weren't you just saying last night that you've known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?"

Harry's eyes widened. No...he couldn't possibly...

"I – well – I ..."

"Yes, didn't you tell me you were sure you knew what was inside it?" Professor Flitwik asked innocently.

Harry could feel panic stirring inside his chest. Professor Lockhart _was_ a Ravenclaw – was it possible he'd figured it out...?

"D-did I? I don't recall..."

Well, he didn't seem very sure of himself...but still...

"I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn't had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested," Professor Snape said lowly, "Didn't you say that the whole affair had been bungled, and that you should have been given free rein from the first?"

Lockhart's eyes whipped from stony face to stony face.

"I...really...I really never...you may have misunderstood..."

"We'll leave it to you, then, Gilderoy," Professor McGonagall said briskly, "Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We'll make sure everyone's out of your way. You'll be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free rein at last."

Lockhart continued to send panicked glances from teacher to teacher, but no one was about to come to his rescue. His bottom lip was trembling at this point.

"V-very well," he stuttered out, "I'll – I'll be in my office, getting – getting ready."

Heart frantically thrumming in his chest, Harry nervously followed him out of the room, trailing behind him as he headed back to his office near the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom. If Professor Lockhart knew where the Chamber was, he'd need to persuade him to stay silent...somehow. He couldn't afford to let someone reach the diary before him.

As Harry approached the office, he heard scrapes and thumps coming from inside, and could not help but wonder what kind of 'getting ready' Lockhart was doing.

Pulling off his cloak, he rapped on the door twice.

A moment later, the door opened to the tiniest crack, and he was met with one of Lockhart's panicked blue eyes.

"Oh..Harry...I'm rather busy at the moment. If you would be quick..."

Harry put on his best concerned face. "Professor..." he began shakily, willing his voice to quiver slightly, "I heard that one of my friends has been taken into the Chamber of Secrets, and that you were going to rescue him, and I think...I think I might have some information that could help you..."

"Er – well – it's not terribly -" The man sputtered for a moment. "I mean, well, alright..."

He opened the door and Harry slipped in.

He had been packing.

He raised an eyebrow,, absently dropping his worried demeanour as a wave of disgust washed over him. "Going somewhere?"

"Er, well, yes," the man said as he removed paintings from the wall, "Urgent call – unavoidable...got to go..."

Realization dawned on Harry, and suddenly he felt very stupid. "You're not rescuing anyone, are you?"

"Well, as to that – most unfortunate," he said faintly, avoiding Harry's eyes, "No one regrets more than I -"

"You're running away," Harry stated bluntly. His eyes narrowed. "Don't you think this might make a good story, Professor Lockhart? For another one of your books? You know, the books where you did all those great, brave things..."

"Books can be misleading," the quivering man said delicately.

"Ah, I see," Harry said, "Well, you can't leave now, you know. Everyone will know – that you ran away when you were needed most. That will...damage your credibility, won't it?"

"Well, now, Harry -"

"I have a much better idea, actually. Why don't you calm yourself down, disappear for an hour, and then go to Professor McGonagall and tell her that the entrance to the Chamber wasn't where you thought it was after all? I mean, you can't help it if you just don't know where it is, right? It was an honest mistake -i t could happen to anyone, couldn't it?"

Lockhart blinked. "Well – yes – I suppose..."

"Well, then, that's it, isn't it? That's all there is to it."

"Er – ah – yes -"

"And I swear I won't say anything, Professor. My lips are sealed. You'll just...owe me, that's all. You'll owe me one."

The man was speechless.

"Now, you go disappear for an hour, and I'll head back to my Common Room."

The man was gaping now.

"I'll see you later, Professor..."

He turned to leave.

"But Harry." The man seemed to have regained his composure. "I can't just let you leave. Not after you've seen me like this - _obliv-_ "

Harry spun around, casting a wordless _Expelliarmus_.

The man's wand flew into his hand.

"None of that, now, professor." He glanced at the wand in his hand. "I'll leave this on one of the desks on my way out."

He turned to leave once again, but looked over his shoulder. "But remember, you owe me one, and I was never here."

He then swept out of the room, leaving an utterly shocked Gilderoy Lockhart behind him.

* * *

Next chapter: exciting things happen.

I'm not particularly pleased with this chapter...it was kind of choppy, wasn't it? I swear the next one is far better.


	36. Tom Marvolo Riddle

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this.

 **AN:** A note on the use of unforgivables in duelling - in order to avoid boring, one sided duels, I'm working with the assumptions (which is at least somewhat supported by canon...I think...maybe...) that unforgivables are much more draining than other spells, and take slightly longer to cast (since they require a lot of emotional fuel).

* * *

 **Chapter 36: Tom Marvolo Riddle**

Seeing Malfoy's prone form discarded in a puddle, lying limp in the middle of the Chamber of Secrets, Harry ran forward, sliding to his knees and immediately placing his fingers on the boy's carotid artery, checking for a pulse. It was there, but only barely. Absently, Harry placed his wand on the ground beside him and began to check his housemate over for injuries. His skin was pale - nearly a deathly white - and cold, but he seemed to be in one piece. That was something, at least.

"He won't wake," a soft voice spoke up from behind him.

Harry snatched up his wand and leapt to his feet, spinning around and stepping back a few paces.

It was a teenage Tom Riddle, leaning against the nearest pillar, watching him with no small amount of curiosity, his dark eyes glittering hungrily. He wasn't yet alive, Harry could tell – the image of him was muted and blurred around the edges, and he flickered slightly in the dim light that crawled between the Chamber's vast stone pillars – but he was almost there. Just a few more minutes was all he would need.

He was too late. Tom's horcrux had almost created a body of his own. Now all he could do was convince him to give it up, if only out of spite.

"He's not dead," Harry said quietly, mind nervously flitting through all the ways he could fix this in a manner that was remotely plausible. So far he had nothing.

"No, he's alive, but only just."

Harry nodded slowly.

"Aren't you going to ask who I am?" Tom Riddle said with a slight edge in his voice, obviously displeased with being apparently overlooked.

"I imagine I would have gotten around to it eventually," Harry replied nervously.

Tom Riddle sneered at him. "Eventually. While you waste time with eventualities your housemate lay dying."

Harry, still deep in thought, nodded absently, frowning as his eyes flickered between Malfoy and Tom. "I noticed you haven't asked who I am either," he pointed out.

Tom quirked an eyebrow at him. "Harry Potter," he enunciated slowly, sauntering toward Harry, causing him to back away further. "A pleasant surprise, to say the least."

"Oh, so you already know."

"Oh yes, I know all about you. The Boy Who Lived. The Potter that ended up in Slytherin. Kind, brave, Harry Potter. The little boy who made the Dark Lord go away, tragically orphaned on the day he became a hero. Ginny Weasley had so much to say, but not as much as Hermione Granger. Sweet, brave Harry Potter – misled but meaning well; abused, but so strong, so brave. Brilliant, inquisitive, and powerful. A polite boy with something dangerous sleeping underneath. But neither of them had as much to say as young Draco Malfoy, here." He prodded Malfoy's cold body with his shoe, much like he'd done to Amy Benson, many years before. "Famous Harry Potter. Special Harry Potter. Thinks he's so clever. Thinks he knows everything. Thinks he can do whatever he wants. If only everyone knew what he really was. If only everyone knew that their favourite Lion in Snake's clothing was, in fact, a Snake through and through. If only everyone knew that brave, kind, Harry Potter had a darkness inside him, a darkness he couldn't quite keep silent. A darkness that made him strong, untouchable – everything dear Draco wished he was. Power - he envied your power, but he couldn't figure out how to take it for his own. He couldn't quite figure you out, and he hated you for it. And I admit, I do understand the sentiment."

Harry glanced between Malfoy and Tom, still wracking his brain for an idea, any way to end this before it was too late. What could he do now? How could he possibly convince Tom to return to the diary? Still, he had nothing.

Tom was smiling broadly now, lips curling into a pleased smirk. "And that's why it's him, lying here, and no one else. For it was he who truly offered up his soul – his fears, insecurities...and believe me, there were many -" Tom paused, noticing the distracted look on Harry's face with a scowl. "Do you not care?"

Harry blinked, stirred from his flustered musings. "About Malfoy? I really don't want him to die, if that's what you mean."

"He _will_ die, and there's nothing you can do to stop it – he has forfeit his soul, to me..."

Harry just stared, still unsure of what to say. Tom seemed to be gloating, and Harry wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to react to that.

Tom's scowl deepened. "You don't look surprised at all, why's that? Aren't you curious? About who I am? About how I'm here? About who the Heir of Slytherin is?"

"I think I can work it out on my own, actually," Harry said honestly, glancing down at Malfoy's deathly white face and suddenly finding himself not willing to waste anymore time. He needed to stop Tom Riddle; and what's more, he needed to save Malfoy – because even after everything the other boy had done, Harry knew that he didn't deserve to die. Especially not because of Harry's carelessness. No, Draco Malfoy deserved the same thing as any other child – the chance to grow up, to better himself and become a stronger person. Draco Malfoy wasn't a good person...but he wasn't a bad one either – he was still innocent, naive, and he deserved a chance to know and understand the world before he left it, right? And even if not...he wasn't about to let Tom Riddle claim another victim. He wasn't about to let someone die for his and Tom's mistake.

Meanwhile, Tom Riddle sneered at him. "Is that so? Then tell me, great, wise Harry Potter – who am I? What are we doing here, in Slytherin's hidden Chamber?"

"Well, you're the Heir of Slytherin – one of them – what's left of you, anyway."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "What's _left_ of me?" he hissed, clearly taking offense at Harry's phrasing.

So he tried to correct himself. "You're like a ghost, a memory of someone who opened the Chamber a long time ago...fifty years ago, to be precise." His eyes narrowed, and he could not keep the smallest traces of venom from leaking into his voice. "And you've been possessing my classmates, having them open the Chamber for you so you can set your pet basilisk on unsuspecting muggleborns...and cats."

Tom glowered at him menacingly. "How," he spat, "Could you _possibly_ know that?"

Reigning in his own ire, Harry shook his head, raising his arms in a placating motion. "Tom -"

Oops.

"How do you know my name?" Tom cried, alarmed, before opening his hand and snapping, _"Accio wand_."

Harry was caught off guard, and his wand was wrenched from his grip, shooting into Tom's hand.

"I don't know what you think you're playing at, Harry Potter, but you clearly know too much. Too much to be kept alive." And with that, he spun on his heel to face the statue behind him. _:Speak to me S-:_

Eyes widening in panic, Harry plunged his hand into his pocket, pulling out the back-up wand which he'd taken along with him – Tom's thirteen inch yew and phoenix feather - and pointing it at Tom Riddle.

" _Expelliarmus!"_

Tom instantly spun back around to face him, erecting a wordless shielding charm. His eyes widened in horror as he took in the sight of the wand in Harry's hand.

"Where," he said, his voice low and quivering in fury, "Did you get that?"

"Godric's Hollow," Harry said, forcing himself to stay calm as his heart beat frantically in his chest, "Where you killed my parents."

There was a wild look in Tom's eyes, and he barked out a laugh. "Then you know! You know exactly who I am!"

"I do."

The boy in front of him laughed gleefully, eyes alight with some sort of crazed amusement. "And who am I, Harry Potter?"

"Lord Voldemort."

Glee twisted into frenzied anger. "How!? How can you know? How could you possibly know?"

Well, might as well just get this over with.

"I know your diary is a horcrux -"

Tom's face became even more furious, if that was possible.

"- just like me."

Tom faltered, his face paling as he stepped back in shock. "...what?"

"A fragment of a soul, preserved in some object, or in my case, a person. Tom Riddle trapped you in a diary fifty years ago, back in your sixth year, just like a piece of his soul came to live inside me ten years ago."

Harry's wand, gripped tightly between Tom's fingers, was quivering. "That's not possible."

"Yeah, that puzzled the piece of you that's inside me too. He's still not quite sure what happened, I think. He thinks my mother did something – apparently she was quite adept at soul magic as well."

Tom scowled as Harry compared him to a muggle-born witch. "That mudblood -"

"Was brilliant," Harry interjected. "She engineered your defeat, after all."

Tom was breathing heavily, eyes alight with something between fear and hope. "Prove it."

Harry shook his head. "I don't have to. How else could I know all this, if you hadn't told me yourself? I can tell you more, if you really want me to. You were born December 31st, 1926. Your mother was Merope Gaunt and your father was a muggle, Tom Riddle. You grew up in Wool's Orphanage, raised by an annoying, nasty old woman named Mrs. Cole. Your first and only friend was named Cici, and she abandoned you only months after you first met her; you killed Billy Stubbs's rabbit and hung it from the rafters when you were nine; a year later you scared Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop so badly that they never spoke again after they left that cave; Professor Dumbledore gave you your Hogwarts letter when you were eleven years old, and you thought he was a doctor from the asylum -"

"Enough," Tom hissed, "Enough. I believe you." He breathed deep, hoarse breaths, clearly trying very hard to calm himself down. "I believe you. So you're not here to stop me, then?" He took another deep breath, nodding to himself. "No. You're here to help, not to stop me."

Harry shook his head, doing his very best to look apologetic, when he really wasn't at all. "I'm afraid I have to."

Tom's eyes flashed. "What?"

"I have to stop you," Harry repeated cautiously.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "And why would you have to do that?"

Why _did_ he have to do that? He couldn't tell Tom Riddle that his Tom had no intention of giving him a body, that his older self thought he would cause more trouble than he was worth, and he certainly couldn't say that he just didn't like him and was feeling a bit vindictive after Hermione's petrification. And Tom Riddle obviously didn't care about Malfoy's life. Which meant...well, he'd have to make something up on the spot, he supposed.

"I...we can't have you running off and messing things up. The other horcruxes are hidden well, but Professor Dumbledore already knows that your master soul is still alive, and if you escape the diary now and Malfoy dies, you risk people realizing that there's more than one Tom Riddle, and then finding out about the horcruxes – you'll be putting us all in danger. You already have – you've been endangering us, all of us, all year. You have to return to the diary. For now, at least."

Harry stifled a smile, quite satisfied by his mostly-true evaluation of their situation.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"I mean no, I'm not going back," Tom said lowly.

"What?" Harry asked, a little taken aback. He hadn't expected Tom to be pleased about it, but he figured that if he explained that his life was in danger, he'd at least be open to the idea of letting this whole rebuilding a body thing go for a while. He thought his reasoning, while certainly a bit shaky and contrived (what with all the bits he left out), would be sound enough to make Tom at least consider it.

"I'm not going back."

"But Tom, you need to -"

"No! I'm not going back!" Tom bellowed suddenly, his voice echoing sharply off the damp stone pillars surrounding them.

Harry frowned, trying to control the anxiety he felt steadily building up inside of him. "It really is for the best -"

"No, it's not!"

"Tom, think about this carefully. You -"

"No! I'm _not_ going back! I'm not going back to that darkness, to being trapped between parchment pages, cursed to live in silence, unable to see, hear, taste, touch, act – I won't go back! Not now, not when I can see with my own eyes, feel with my own hands – taste the air! I won't go back!"

Unbidden, pity swelled in Harry's chest. It was exactly like he thought – the other horcruxes were like his Tom...able to think and feel, but trapped in cold, lifeless objects. Tom may have murdered a fellow student to create this horcrux, he may have voluntarily trapped himself inside, but did he really deserve fifty years of sensory deprivation and loneliness? He might have petrified Hermione...but did that justify years of torment with no end in sight? Suddenly, Harry felt very unsure of himself. He was sentencing a piece of his best friend's soul to years, possibly decades, centuries, or millenia, of torture. He knew it was for the best, he knew that ultimately, it was the right call to make. But still, it felt so _wrong._

 _Harry_.

Tom's thoughts cut through his mind, and suddenly he remembered. Draco Malfoy was lying at his feet, at the brink of death, and one of his best friends was lying in the hospital wing, petrified; his own life and the life of his oldest and dearest friend were at risk. He couldn't afford to empathize with Tom; he had a job to do. He had to be convincing; and to do that, he had to be convinced by his own words. "Tom, I understand that it's difficult," Harry began slowly, his voice sympathetic.

" _Crucio_!" Tom suddenly shrieked out, and half a moment later, a wretched scream tore through Harry's throat as he fell to his knees.

Shock penetrated his entire being as white-hot knives sliced through his skin, tearing through his muscles over and over again, while electricity burned through him right to the bone. Every jolt of pain was all-consuming, and every moment he was sure that it he couldn't endure anymore - it had to end. But it didn't. As moments turned into seconds, stretching into long minutes and taking on the appearance of hours, he could feel himself slowly losing control of his body as he convulsed on the floor; through the pain, he realized that the longer this went on, the weaker he'd become. So steeling himself, he gripped Tom's wand tightly, calling out, _"B-bombarda!"_

Tom stumbled backward at the weak explosion, and Harry used the distraction to scramble behind one of the pillars across from the one Tom had been leaning against earlier.

"Harry Potter!" he heard Tom growl out, "You're not making me go back! Either help me regain my body or die here, with Draco Malfoy, in the Chamber of Secrets!"

Harry's eyes widened. "Tom, if you kill me, you're killing part of yourself!"

"I don't care!"

Harry could feel panic seizing him. He hadn't expected this to be easy, but he hadn't expected it to be...impossible. Tom was clearly beyond reason. But then again, being trapped in a diary for fifty years could do that to you, he supposed.

"Come out, Harry~" the other boy sang, his voice sweet, contrasting violently with the furious bellowing that had preceded it. Tom chuckled softly to himself, "I want to see it again, the pain in your eyes, the agony written all over your face."

Harry cringed, stomach lurching, but taking a deep breath he spun around, leaping out from behind the pillar.

" _Stupefy!"_

"The stunning charm?" Tom barked out a laugh, his voice harsh again, "Really?" He took a deep breath. " _Crucio!_ "

Harry managed to dodge this time. _"Expulso!"_

" _Interfodio!"_

Harry's widened at the unfamiliar curse. _"Protego! Reducto!"_ he cast in quick succession.

" _Lacero_ _!"_ Tom exclaimed after erecting a wordless shielding charm.

 _"Protego! Diffindo!"_

Tom sneered at him. "Cute. _Spina Discutio!"_

Harry dodged. " _Aguamenti! Oppugno!"_ Water droplets formed in the air, and flew into Tom's face, sharp enough to cut. _"Confringo!"_

Tom cackled as he erected another wordless shielding charm, dispelling the water into a mist and deflecting the curse back at Harry, who narrowly dodged it. "Very good, Harry Potter!"

Harry could not contain a small satisfied smirk. He was quite proud of himself for thinking up that one on the fly.

"Perhaps I'm underestimating you. _Aguamenti! Glacius! Oppugno! Expulso!"_

Of course, Tom had to one-up him.

Shards of ice darted toward him, the _expulso_ following in their wake.

" _Protego!"_

He successfully blocked Tom's curses, but found himself thrown backward by the force of the _expulso_ hammering against his shield.

" _Confringo!"_ Tom shouted before Harry managed to call out another curse.

Harry dodged this time, crying out simultaneously. _"Expulso!"_

" _Eviscero!"_

Harry gasped and stumbled out of the way, narrowly dodging the disembowelling curse.

 _"Crucio!"_

The time it took for Tom to cast the unforgivable gave Harry the chance to prepare to unleash two particularly nasty curses in quick succession while he dodged, _"Evoco Pavor! Excorio!"_

Tom grinned amusedly as Harry took a deep breath. _"Fervefacio! Excorio!"_

 _"Protego!"_

 _"Eviscero!"_

 _"Protego! Reducto!"_

The curse flew right past Tom, hitting the pillar behind him, causing the sides to crumble to dust.

 _"Externo! Evoco Pavor!"_

Harry threw himself out of the way again, stumbling as he pointed at the dust at Tom's feet, casting _"Oppugno!"_

A cloud of dust swirled to life between him and Tom, giving him the chance to, as Tom dispelled the dust, cast, _"Sectumsempra!"_

The cutting curse narrowly missed Tom, who deflected it only at the last moment, after taking a moment to stare at it admiringly, before glaring at Harry, clearly unhappy about almost being hit by a curse he didn't know. He paused, and Harry followed suit, breathing heavily. Tom's wordless shielding charms were impeccable, and he didn't really have to dodge, unlike Harry, who was starting to feel very worn down.

" _Sectumsempra!"_ Tom cast without warning, and Harry couldn't dodge fast enough – the curse caught him on his arm, and he let out a yelp of pain, casting a panicked glance at Tom, who was still glaring at him, but gave no indication of further movement.

A few seconds passed, and Tom's stare turned critical, as though he was solemnly considering something – a moment later, he cried out, _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry's eyes widened, and, in a fit of panic, he threw himself out of the way with such force that he collapsed on the stone floor, bruising his side.

"You tried to kill me!" he blurted out as he stumbled to his feet.

"That?" Tom grinned viciously. "That was just saying hello! _Avada Kedavra!"_ He took a deep breath. _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Terrified, Harry scrambled back behind the pillar, breathing heavily. A fellow horcrux was trying to kill him. Tom was trying to _kill him_. Again.

"Come out, Harry Potter! I want to look at you when I kill you! I want to see the light leave your eyes - a beautiful light, filled with terror. Come out! You're only delaying what is to come." Tom chuckled cruelly. "You can't hide forever. You're going to die, Harry Potter - I'm going to kill you and I'm going to enjoy _every_ moment of it."

Harry could feel tears running down his cheeks, thin and barely there, but burning his skin. His breaths were hoarse, sharp and biting in his chest, and a cold sweat was dripping down his face; his skin was throbbing, electrified by adrenaline and still burning with the fire of the cruciatus curse. Tom was right. He was losing energy and his movements were getting sloppy – never before had he been so exhilarated, so nervous, or so terrified. A part of him felt better than he had ever felt before; a part of him was vibrating with excitement - but this part of him was being quickly eclipsed by the shadow of despair creeping over his mind. He couldn't do this. He knew when he was beat. He had lost. He was going to die, alone, in the Chamber of Secrets. He was going to die.

Except he wasn't.

He wasn't alone. Not really. Suddenly, he remembered Tom's words, five long years ago:

" _Know this, Harry – you are never alone."_

He couldn't beat Tom Riddle...but Lord Voldemort could.

 _:Tom, help me,:_ he hissed miserably.

A moment later, his wish was granted.

The sensation of being drawn into himself seized him, and suddenly, his fingers went stiff and it wasn't him holding the wand in his hand anymore; he blinked his eyes and he could feel them burning as they flickered to crimson, and he realized it wasn't him blinking, breathing anymore. Unbidden, his muscles flexed and he rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, cracking his neck.

He wasn't Harry Potter anymore. And now, he was going to win.

" _Crucio,"_ his Tom whispered as he stepped out from behind the pillar, causing Diary-Tom to jump out of the way.

"Unforgivables, Harry? I'm impressed," Diary-Tom snarled.

Harry felt his face stretch into a grin. "Unfortunately, young Harry here does not yet have the capacity to cast the cruciatus curse. All in due time, though."

Diary-Tom's eyes widened, and Harry watched him pale with some smugness.

"You're..."

"Lord Voldemort."

Diary-Tom scowled. " _I'm_ Lord Voldemort!"

Harry felt his grin turn wry. "Yes, of course," his Tom said patronizingly.

" _Crucio!"_

Gracefully stepping to the side, Tom wordlessly cast the cruciatus curse right back at his counterpart, watching with no small amount of amusement as he narrowly dodged it.

" _Expulso! Confringo! Eviscero!"_

His Tom effortlessly blocked every curse his younger self cast at him, punctuating his shielding charms with strange bursts of light that Harry did not recognize, each one tasting deliciously dark in the air around him.

 _"Interfodio! Lacero!"_

Again his Tom blocked effortlessly, carelessly casting spell after spell in turn, dark amusement growing as Diary-Tom's movements became shaky and frenzied. It was not long before one of his wordless cruciatus curses hit Diary-Tom, and the boy fell to his knees, eyes widening in shock. This was probably the only time Tom Riddle would ever feel that curse, he guessed.

Diary-Tom refused to collapse or cry out, but remained on his knees, frozen as the torture curse burned through him him. Harry, through the dark magic induced elation he felt while Tom continued to torment his younger self, found himself slightly disappointed by Diary-Tom's silence.

Meanwhile, he could feel his legs moving, and his body was slowly walking toward Tom's younger counterpart. As he drew closer, he felt Tom release the curse, and the ecstacy faded into a hollow buzz.

"Give up. You cannot defeat me."

Diary-Tom bristled. "Don't...count on it – you're in the b-body of a child...your magic is limited. I...I only...have to outlast you," he said shakily, trying to rise to his feet.

His Tom chuckled ominously, and feeling surge of cruel amusement electrifying his brain, Harry was suddenly thankful that this Tom was on his side.

"Ah, to be young and ignorant. You foolish boy – have you not felt this one's magic? I have access to as much magic as I could possibly need," his Tom bluffed. Harry knew that Tom could only use so much of his magic before it began to hurt him.

Diary-Tom didn't care, though. _"Avada Kedav-!"_

" _Crucio."_

Diary-Tom fell to his knees once again, and Harry could see he was biting his lip so hard that blood was dribbling down his chin. Eventually, he collapsed entirely, and began writhing on the floor.

Holding the curse, his Tom continued his advance on the Slytherin prefect, only releasing it when he knelt down in front of him, gently placing a hand on his cheek.

"Why are you doing this?" Diary-Tom growled hoarsely.

"You are a loose end, a weakness," his Tom said simply, "A weakness I do not wish to account for. And such weaknesses are best kept locked away where they cannot become liabilities."

Harry could see Diary-Tom's muscles straining, as though against an invisible force, and Harry noticed that his Tom's wand was still pointed at him, no doubt pushing an immense weight on the younger Dark Lord, forcing him to stay down.

"It's too late," Diary-Tom hissed, something smug and yet desperate shining in his eyes, "The boy is about to die. In a few moments he will be dead, and I will have a body of my own."

 _No!_ Harry cried out in his mind. He couldn't let Malfoy die – he couldn't let Tom Riddle win. _Please, Tom, no!_

But his Tom smiled. "There is so much that you don't know. What has been done can been undone." Suddenly, Tom gripped his younger self's head tightly, causing the boy to cry out, startled.

"What are you -"

"Wisdom allows us to recognize our weaknesses - but power, true power, is what grants us the ability to turn our weaknesses into strengths."

"Wha -"

"The soul is a curious thing," his Tom continued, "We can tear it apart as many times as we wish, but the pieces will always yearn to be together again."

Harry felt his eyes close and his lungs fill, and for a moment, he felt extraordinarily light-headed, blissful even – but only for a moment; that's when the pain started.

His head felt as though it was splitting in two, and while Tom remained silent in his suffering, Diary-Tom was screaming wretchedly, just as Harry was, buried deep in his mind. Harry could feel something burning his skin, and when his Tom opened Harry's eyes again he saw black blood escaping Diary-Tom's mouth, nose, eyes, and crawling up Harry's arm, sneaking under his fingernails and absorbing itself into his skin. Soon his veins went black, as they crawled and rippled under his skin like tiny worms eating at his flesh. It was a horrible feeling, disgusting and agonizing all at once.

He could feel his breaths grow shallow and hollow, and the pain only intensified as he watched, before him, Diary-Tom's skin blister and burn, and crumble away, black blood seeping from the cracks – and that horrifying image was the last thing he saw before it all went dark, before the pain grew far away, the screams grew distant, and everything faded to a painless, pensive black.

* * *

What did you think? Dramatic enough? Do let me know!


	37. The Malfoys

**Disclaimer:** yes, this still isn't mine.

 **AN1:** Wow! It made me so happy to read all the lovely comments left on my last chapter - really, it made my week. I haven't said this in a while, but I want to thank everyone who gives me feedback on my story. It means a lot to me to hear that people are reading and enjoying what I post. I hope I can continue to write entertaining material for all of you.

 **AN2:** I thought I'd address this, because a couple of people mentioned it in reviews - Harry does _not_ have 'over half' of Voldemort's soul. There are a few reasons for this, one being that I don't think that it's ever said explicitly in canon that making a horcrux splits the soul exactly in half (please correct me if I'm wrong), and I don't think it makes sense that there's far less of Voldemort's soul in Voldemort himself than in, say, the ring. The second reason is that I'm not sure it makes sense from a philosophical perspective. I guess it depends on how you choose to interpret the concept of a soul. I'm probably going to need to go into this more later because of (spoilers), so I won't say more than that right now; suffice it to say, in my AU, creating a horcrux splits off a fragment of a soul, but 'ownership' belongs to the master soul, the one doing the splitting, who is, arguably, the largest piece, and will remain the largest piece until ownership is somehow transfered. You might be able to see where I'm going with this...

Anyway, the way in which the extra soul bits affect Harry won't really be clear until chapter 39-41 ish, but rest assured, there will be significant changes.

* * *

 **Chapter 37: The Malfoys**

It was a strange combination of soft and coarse – cotton? It was wet, and it felt so, so good on his feverish skin. That's when he realized that it was water, a thin layer of cold water dabbed clumsily onto his face.

He opened his eyes to find Draco Malfoy leaning over him with a wet piece of stained white cloth in his hand. His eyes travelled to the boy's uniform, from which a piece had been torn off.

"Are you...washing my face with your shirt?" Harry asked confusedly.

Malfoy blushed. "You were covered in ink – you looked so dreadful I couldn't stand it anymore," he snapped.

Harry chuckled and sat up, doing his best to ignore the pounding in his head. "Ink?"

Malfoy nodded, grimacing. "Black ink, all over your arms and face."

Harry nodded slowly, feeling quite puzzled. Ink? Black ink? Unbidden, images flashed in front of his eyes – of flashing lights, black blood - not ink, blood - and the gruesome crumbling of skin, a face melting before him - and then they just...slipped away, leaving an eerie, empty calm in their wake. He shivered. "How...long have I been out?"

Malfoy raised an eybrow. "Not sure. It's not like there's a way to tell time down here. A really long time, I guess."

"Oh..." he said, feeling a bit stupid.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments, their soft breaths echoing off the walls of the chamber, reverberating as they collided with stone and water.

Harry couldn't help but frown as he tried very hard to remember what happened. He went down to the Chamber of Secrets, duelled Tom Riddle, and then he let Tom take over, and then...he didn't know. His mind was a murky mess, and he could barely concentrate enough to form coherent sentences. Every thought he had just seemed to...melt away, whenever he got too close. The headache wasn't helping.

"Thank you," Malfoy blurted out suddenly.

Harry blinked. "For what?"

"For...you followed me down here, and I just...I've just got this feeling that I wouldn't be alive if you hadn't."

Harry nodded. That was true.

"May I ask...what happened?"

Harry looked at him for a long moment, surprised to hear Malfoy sounding so...contrite. Well, contrite for him, anyway.

"You were possessed by that." He pointed to the diary, which was lying limply in a puddle on the Chamber floor a few feet away. "When I found out you went missing, I...yes, I came looking for you here...in the Chamber of Secrets."

"And...Tom Riddle?"

Hearing the name, Harry's mind sharpened, and he looked at his companion with narrowed eyes. "Did he tell you? Who he was?"

Malfoy let out a shuddering breath. "Just before I lost consciousness...he said to me, 'L-lord -" he winced "-V-Voldemort thanks you for your service, Draco Malfoy'."

Harry nodded, internally cursing Tom. Now he had much more to explain. "He's gone now, he can't ever hurt you again."

Malfoy's eyes went wide. "You...you got rid of him? ...again...?"

"It's...a long story..."

"I'm listening," Malfoy said, making it sound like an order. Harry supposed he probably couldn't help it.

Harry shook his head, trying to convey regret. "Listen, Malfoy..."

"Draco."

Harry stared at the hand Malfoy was holding out between them.

"You...saved my life, even after everything...I understand if you don't want it...but I want to offer you an apology...for...well, everything. For trying to hex you all those times, for ignoring you, for...calling Granger a mudblood, for nearly letting everyone know you're a parselmouth, for not giving you the diary...for everything." The words sounded a little...stilted and pained, but they were sincere.

Harry's eyes were wide. Malfoy was...apologizing? Sure, he had expected a thank you, but never had he considered he'd receive such a thorough apology from the arrogant boy. He hesitated only for a moment before he decidedly grasped Malfoy's – Draco's – hand. "Of course. I forgive you."

Draco nodded curtly. "Good...I owe you my life, so I figured the least I could do is...apologize."

Harry smiled weakly.

"So...the Dark Lord...what happened to him?" Draco asked cautiously, clearly still somewhat shaken by the memory of Tom Riddle standing over his dying body.

"He's gone, Draco, don't worry. You're free."

Draco heaved a sigh of relief. "But how...?"

"I'd tell you...but there are people who can't know about this, Draco. In fact, people can't even know we were here at all - I don't want other people wandering around down here..."

"I wouldn't tell anyone!" Draco said quickly, indignantly.

"I...know." He really didn't, but there was no point in arguing. "But still," he said, "I'm going to need you to sign this." He fished his quill, ink, and diary out of his pocket, and nearly sighed in relief when he found Tom's wand hidden away deep inside.

"You keep a quill in your pocket?" Draco asked incredulously.

"And my diary. Never know when I might need to take notes."

"Nerd," he heard Draco huff under his breath.

"Draco," he said sternly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know - sign the oath; same deal as before, right?"

"Not quite. It prevents you from finding the Chamber again."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Right, because I'd _actually_ want to come down here again. I'm not suicidal."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Just sign it," he said with a sigh, shoving the book and quill into Draco's hand.

After he found out that Ginny Weasley had lost the diary, he took it upon himself to construct a very specific contract, just in case things went terribly awry - which they had. The oath guaranteed that whoever (didn't matter who) found the Chamber of Secrets would not be able to return to it or relay its location to anyone. He had hoped to tie in a clause about not being able to talk about what happened in it either, but even just this took him over 6 hours to outline and write, and when he finally got around to actually casting the spell, he was left dizzy and overwhelmed.

" _Now_ will you tell me what happened?" Draco asked impatiently as he handed the diary and quill back to Harry, who pocketed them.

"The oath won't prevent you from relaying any information I share with you. I could use the spell I used on you, Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle back in December, but I need my blood quill for that, and I obviously don't walk around school with a dark artifact in my pocket."

Draco huffed. "I _said_ I won't tell anyone."

"Yes, but even if I believe you, you might not have to."

"Might not have to what?"

"Might not have to tell someone."

Draco frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean...do you know what legilimency is?"

Draco sniffed. "Of course I do."

"Well, Professor Dumbledore is a legilimens, and so is Professor Snape."

Draco gaped at him. "Seriously?"

Harry nodded. "So, anything I tell you, they might be able to pick out of your head. Unless you claim to be an accomplished occlumens," Harry added on skeptically.

Draco scowled.

"I thought so. So you see, I really can't say anything, for both our sakes."

Draco nodded slowly. "No, that's...ok...I guess..." he said begrudgingly.

"But to be safe...don't look anyone in the eye when we get back. Better safe than sorry."

Draco nodded again, looking a bit confused.

"Which reminds me...we need to decide what to tell people."

"Tell people?"

"Well yes, people will wonder where we were, and we can't tell them we were here – as I said, I don't want people snooping around down here." He paused. "It is _my_ Chamber after all," he said imperiously.

"Right, of course. How did you even find this place anyways?"

"I can't risk anyone picking that out of your head, either."

Draco huffed. "Fine."

Rising to his knees, Harry crawled over and picked up the diary, frowning. It certainly didn't feel like a horcrux, or anything remotely magical at all, but better safe than sorry. So removing his quill from his pocket, along with his ink, he dipped his quill in the inkwell and wrote in the diary, _'Tom?'_

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure it's empty."

 _'If you don't answer, I'm going to destroy this. Don't think I don't know how...'_ he bluffed. Tom actually had never trusted him with the knowledge of how to destroy horcruxes.

No answer. Apparently Tom had succeeded at...well, whatever he had been trying to do.

"Well?"

Harry blotted out his messages and put his quill away. He hesitated before putting away his inkwell, though. Suddenly struck by an idea, he dumped the ink all over the diary, drenching the pages in black. That would explain why he was covered in ink. "It's empty."

Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

Meanwhile, Harry knew it was too soon to be relieved. He couldn't return empty-handed - he needed some explanation for the attacks. He could claim it was some sort of spirit possessing students and leading them into the Chamber, but then he'd have to explain how he exorcised it, which he didn't know how to do. He would also have to explain how he figured it out...

He pursed his lips. No, it was better to stick closer to the truth. He would use the diary as a scapegoat - he knew just the spell. Harry didn't claim to have much knowledge on the subject, but he knew that not much could destroy a horcrux. Creating them was a complicated process that involved binding a soul to an object, and the only way to get rid of it would be to utterly and completely destroy the object - to completely break down the matter itself, chemically or magically. So if Harry cast a spell that would explain how he divested it of its powers - something powerful enough to cleanse a dark artifact but weak enough that it would never be able to destroy a horcrux - he could provide a plausible explanation without leaving the possibility of someone discovering it was a horcrux in the first place.

Shakily, Harry rose to his feet and walked over to his wand, picking it up.

" _Anathema purgo."_

His heard skipped a beat, and for a moment he doubled over in pain, as a bright light enveloped the diary. Stumbling, he fell to his knees as something pulled desperately at his magic, causing him to cry out in surprise. He thought that the spell wouldn't have much of an effect on him, seeing as the diary was empty - apparently he was wrong.

"What was that?" Draco asked, alarmed.

"An purification curse," Harry said absently, straightening himself with a deep breath.

"A what?"

"It casts pure dark magic so potent that it 'overwrites' most curses placed on a dark artifact."

"Where did you learn a spell like that?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "The restricted section."

Draco's eyes bugged out. "The _restricted section?"_

"Mhm."

"Can you teach me!?"

Harry sighed. "I can't go around teaching you dark magic if you can't keep people out of your head."

Draco looked thoughtful at that. "So if I learned occlumency..."

Harry paused. "Maybe."

Draco's eyes glinted, but then he frowned. "I thought you said the diary was empty."

"It is, but I want to be able to explain what happened, and I need an alibi if someone decides to check my wand for the last spell cast."

"And you still can't tell me how you really got rid of...the Dark Lord."

"Afraid not."

Draco pouted a little. "So what? We say you cast that curse, and then the Dark Lord was defeated?"

Harry shook his head. "We say that Lord Voldemort cursed the diary, and I erased the curse."

"...isn't that what I just said?" Draco sounded a bit irritated.

"No, what you said makes it seem like Lord Voldemort was really here."

"Wasn't he?"

"...no."

Draco gave him a look that clearly said didn't believe him.

"Not really," he ammended.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Fine, but they'll still ask where you found me, and you'll have to tell them."

Harry frowned. "Yes, that is a problem. But...there must be another entrance somewhere, something that leads outside."

"How do you know that?"

"Think about it, the monster has to eat somehow."

"...oh, right."

Harry nodded. "We just need to find the other exit."

"And...how do we do that?"

Harry put his finger in his mouth and then lifted it up. A moment later, he announced, "That way," pointing down one of the tunnels.

"How d'you know that?"

"There's a draft," Harry said by way of explanation. Of course, there were many possible causes for a draft...but considering that he was alive and in one piece, Harry was feeling like, for the first time in a while, he had luck on his side.

It took them at least a half hour – probably closer to an hour, actually – to traverse the long, dark, dank tunnel. Eventually though, they did reach an opening, through which they were met by the bright noon sun shining through, attacking their eyes mercilessly. However, they hit an invisible wall when they tried to leave.

"Bloody hell!" Draco exclaimed when he was thrown backwards.

Harry frowned. Some sort of force field? There had to be a way to get past, though; the basilisk had to get outside somehow.

 _:Open?:_

He reached forward, and sure enough, his hand went through. "Come on, it just needed a password."

Draco raised an eyebrow, dusting himself off and trying to regain some of his dignity. "What was it?"

"Open."

"Open?" Draco repeated incredulously.

"Open," Harry confirmed.

Draco opened his mouth to say something, but it ended up falling open in shock. "Where did it go?"

Harry turned around and blinked, frowning slightly; the hole they had emerged from had disappeared entirely, leaving an unassuming mound of grass behind.

"Huh. I wonder...is it like the Room of Requirement?" Harry asked himself thoughtfully.

"Room of Requirement? What's the Room of Requirement?"

Harry hesitated. "Learn occlumency, and maybe I'll show you."

Draco looked a bit put off, but nodded determinedly.

"Anyway, we should get going. It's going to be a long walk."

Draco groaned.

* * *

When they arrived at Professor Snape's office, they were met by four very worried faces – Dumbledore's, Professor Snape's, and Draco's parents'. Well, to be fair, Professor Snape looked more angry and exhausted than worried. Actually, it was _really_ hard to imagine an expression anywhere close to worry on Professor Snape's usually stern, hard face.

When they entered after knocking a few times, all four adults gaped at them for a solid five seconds. They must have made quite the sight, standing there covered in water, ink, and mud, Harry's glasses cracked.

Professor Snape was the first to snap out of his shock. "Where have you been?" he hissed.

Harry and Draco looked at each other.

"The Forbidden Forest," Draco said shakily and shamefully, eyes falling to the floor. Harry had to admire his new friend's acting skills.

Immediately as he opened his mouth, his mother ran forward and threw her arms around him.

Harry stepped back, a little alarmed by the woman's behaviour.

"And _why,_ pray tell, were you there?" Professor Snape sounded incredibly irate, pointedly ignoring Mrs. Malfoy's tearful embracing of her son, who she was now showering with kisses.

Harry held up the diary, which he'd purposefully rubbed all over with dirt, for added effect, and watched with concealed glee as Mr. Malfoy paled drastically. "It was this diary – it was possessing Draco."

"Oh, my poor, sweet Draco."

Draco grimaced, but didn't look surprised. Was this normal behaviour for a mother?

Meanwhile, Dumbledore stepped forward. "May I, Harry?"

He dared not hesitate when he handed the diary over. "Of course, sir."

Professor Dumbledore's usually serene face was pressed into a concerned frown as he looked over the unassuming object.

"It belonged to someone named T.M. Riddle. I think he might have cursed it...and I think it's what's been opening the Chamber of Secrets."

Professor Dumbledore paled a few shades at the name Riddle.

Professor Snape looked like he was about to yell at him, but the Headmaster held up a hand. "Perhaps you had better explain from the beginning, Harry," the elderly man said softly.

Harry nodded and steeled himself. "Draco had been acting strangely, lately...looking pale and nervous, disappearing sometimes, and I'd noticed...he'd been writing in a diary, which wasn't something he used to do. And then...was it yesterday? He had mentioned that he had to go somewhere, and he told me to make sure no one followed him...I asked him where he was going, and he said 'the forest.' He had the diary with him. I let him go, but then Professor Snape came to the Common Room, and had the prefects call roll, and I had this terrible feeling that something had gone wrong...so I fetched my invisibility cloak, and went to the Forbidden Forest."

The Headmaster nodded encouragingly.

"When I found him, I called out to him, but he didn't respond at first, so I ran after him...as soon as I got close, though, I knew something wasn't right – he wasn't acting like himself. He kept saying he had to 'find the entrance'. I told him to come back to the Common Room with me, but then he spun around and tried to curse me. I managed to disarm him, and then stun him, and then...I really didn't know what else to do, so I used this spell I found the other day to break the curse on the diary. It knocked me unconscious for a while...I only woke up a couple of hours ago."

Everyone was staring at him in shock, except Draco, who knew the rehearsed story by heart at this point.

Professor Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "And what spell, Harry, managed to do that?"

Harry made a big show of hesitating, and looking at his feet shamefully. "Umm... _Anathema Purgo._ "

Most of the people in the room looked puzzled, except Dumbledore, who was staring at him grimly.

"And where would you have found a spell like _Anathema Purgo,_ Harry?"

"Um...the library?"

The elderly professor quirked an eyebrow. "That is rare dark magic, Harry, very rare indeed – and not only rare, but dangerous as well. It requires a great deal of magic to cast, and witches and wizards who have used it have been known to...meet unfortunate ends. You are lucky to be alive."

"Um, yes, well..."

"And it should also be noted that the only place you would find a book containing such magic is the Restricted Section, which you have not acquired any passes to."

Harry looked at him sheepishly. "I...know. I'm sorry. I...was curious, is all. There are so many interesting books there...and it was for the best, wasn't it?"

"This time, Harry, this time..."

The Headmaster sounded resigned; meanwhile, Professor Snape looked furious.

"But do not be deceived, Potter," he said venomously, "Despite the _heroism_ -" he spat the word "- of your disregard for the rules, you _will_ be in detention until the end of term."

Harry hung his head, truly upset now. "Yes sir."

"Come, Severus." It was Mrs. Malfoy speaking, looking at Professor Snape sternly. "Look at the poor boy – hasn't he been punished enough?"

Professor Snape looked even more furious. "Now see here, Narcissa, Potter's disregard -"

"No, you see here, Severus," the woman snapped, spinning around to face him, straightening. For a slender woman, she was really quite imposing. "This boy risked his life to save my son – I don't care if he cast the killing curse to do it. He will _not_ be punished."

Harry and Draco gaped at her, and Professor Snape looked like he had just swallowed something very bitter.

"Now, now, Mrs. Malfoy," Professor Dumbledore said consolingly, "Harry will not be punished -" here, he looked pointedly at Harry "- this time."

The woman nodded curtly.

"Now, I'm sure that you will be wanting to take your son home with you."

Mr. Malfoy nodded stiffly, still looking very uneasy. "That's correct."

"Sir," Harry said cautiously, "May I be excused as well?"

The old man nodded. "Yes, Harry – why don't you go see Madame Pomfrey; she will want to check you over for injuries. You may return to your dormitory after you have seen her."

He nodded. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. Professor Snape."

He was about to leave when Mrs. Malfoy made her opinion known once again.

"Surely the boy should be allowed to spend some time with his family," she said, looking at the old man indignantly, casting a worried glance over at Harry.

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to return home for a couple of days Harry?" the old man asked in a voice that suggested that he had a good guess what the answer might be.

Harry shook his head. "I am home."

The Headmaster smiled sadly.

Mrs. Malfoy opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Harry clarified. "Hogwarts is my home. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

The woman wasn't appeased by that, though; she turned back to Professor Dumbledore. "Then he'll return to the manor with us," she said decisively.

Harry gaped at her, and the Headmaster raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh?"

"Mr. Potter nearly died saving my son, and you want to shoo him off to his dormitory?" the woman asked incredulously, "I cannot let that stand. If he will not return to his family, I must insist that he remains a guest at Malfoy Manor until he and Draco have recovered."

Mr. Malfoy looked like he wanted to argue, and Professor Snape looked disgusted by the woman's kindness, while Professor Dumbledore looked like Christmas has come early. Harry just continued to gape.

"Well," Professor Dumbledore said cheerily, sounding delighted, "If Harry wishes to take you up on your hospitality, Mrs. Malfoy, I certainly have no qualms with it."

Everyone in the room was now looking at him – _again –_ and suddenly his brain lurched to a halt. He and Mal-Draco had become friends all of an hour ago, maybe two now, and now his mother was inviting him over to their _Manor_ , to stay over until he 'recovered' (from what, he didn't know). He knew that this was not entirely uncommon – Dudley had spent the night with a couple of his friends, over the years, and he often overheard girls talking about something they called slumber parties – but he had never actually expected to have this opportunity presented to him, of all people, by Draco's mother, no less.

"I...um...well..."

Well, it would be rude to say no, wouldn't it? That's how these things went, right? It would be rude to say no.

"I-if it's no trouble..."

"Excellent," Mrs. Malfoy said briskly, brushing past everyone toward the fireplace. "Severus, your floo powder?"

Still looking very sour, Professor Snape removed a small box from the mantle and opened the lid.

"Come, Draco, Mr. Potter, we're leaving."

The two boys immediately obeyed, and Draco took a handful of the powder, scattering it into the fireplace before stepping in and calling out, "Malfoy Manor!"

A green fire stirred in the hearth, and a moment later, Draco was gone.

Mrs. Malfoy now looked at him expectantly, and he timidly took a handful of the powder. He hesitated. "What's the probability that I get lost?" he said uneasily.

Professor Snape just sneered at him, but Mrs. Malfoy looked at him encouragingly and said, "Just speak clearly."

Grimacing, he scattered the powder in the fireplace and stepped in, carefully enunciating, "Malfoy Manor."

A moment later, he was being tugged away, sucked down giant drain in a whirl of green flame. The sensation of being flushed through a dry wind tunnel lasted far too long, and yet not long enough – because as soon as the sensation abandoned him, he was unceremoniously dropped into the Malfoy's hearth, where he tumbled out and landed on his face.

Draco was laughing at him. "Haha – Harry – ha – you'd think you'd never travelled by floo before!"

Harry stumbled to his feet, feeling somewhat disgruntled. "I haven't."

Draco gaped at him. "You haven't?"

"No."

"How do you get around?" the other boy asked, puzzled.

"Knight Bus, mostly."

"The _what_?"

At that moment, the fireplace roared again, and Mrs. Malfoy stepped out, elegant and composed, and Harry couldn't help but feel very jealous of her poise. Half a beat later, Mr. Malfoy stepped out as well, still looking a bit ashen in the face.

"Tiffy!" Mrs. Malfoy called out immediately, not even batting an eye at Harry's bedraggled appearance (well, even more bedraggled than before, that is), and a small elf popped into existence between them.

"Yes Mistress!"

"Show our guest, Mr. Potter, to the first guest room, and have some of Draco's clothes readied for him - a set of pyjamas, and some casual wear."

"Yes Mistress!" The excitable elf turned to Harry with a big smile. "Come with me, Master Potter!"

Harry nodded dazedly, still somewhat frazzled by his mini-adventure with the floo network, and made to follow the elf, but Mrs. Malfoy stopped him, a soft smile on her face.

"Sleep for a few hours – you'll feel better. I'll send for you when dinner has been prepared," she said kindly.

Harry froze, awareness snapping into place as he was chilled to the bone by her kind words. The woman was tall, imposing, and frighteningly elegant – and yet, there was softness in her black eyes, a kindness in her regal voice as she spoke. When she looked at him...he felt safe. He felt like everything was going to be fine. Is this what it's like, he had to wonder, to have a mother?

Stirring from his silent shock, he smiled back at Mrs. Malfoy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

He was smiling to himself as he let Tiffy lead him out of the room with the fireplace. Immediately, it opened up into a cavernous entrance hall, the floor patterned with black and white marble. The floor, the doorways, the pillars, the stairs – they all shone, as if newly polished, glistening slightly under the gold and crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

"This way, Master Potter!"

Harry's wide eyes blinked and he followed Tiffy up the large staircase that rose from the end of the hall, opposite to the dark oak doors behind him, which branched out to the left and right after the thirteenth step. Tiffy led him up the stairwell to his right, and soon they were in a long hallway, tastefully decorated by the odd painting here and there, all of which were staring bemusedly at Harry, who did his best to ignore the suspicious stares – a skill that was quite well honed, at this point.

Eventually, they reached a large white door near the end of the hallway, which clicked open when Tiffy snapped her fingers.

Inside the room was a large bed, lavishly decorated with a fluffy blue duvet and far more pillows than anyone could possibly need. A modest-sized wardrobe sat in the corner, and a table and a mirror stood across from the bed, a velvet-upholstered chair in front of them. In the corner was another doorway, cracked open only slightly; Harry could see a bathroom inside.

Tiffy looked up at him with a bright smile. "If Master Potter -"

"You can call me Harry," Harry put in.

Tiffy's already massive smile grew. "If Master Harry will be waiting a moment, Tiffy will fetch some pyjamas for Master Harry!"

Harry nodded, and the elf popped away.

He sighed and looked down at what was once his Hogwarts uniform. His shirt was rumpled and torn up, stained all over with black ink and dried blood, his woolen vest in a similar state. His robes suffered the same maladies as his shirt and jumper, with the added ornamentation of mud caking the edges. His pants had rips in them and were also stained all over in black, and his tie had clearly been caught by one of Tom's curses.

He sighed again, and started by peeling off his soaking wet shoes, then sliding his muddy outer robe off his shoulders.

Tiffy then reappeared, with some neatly folded pyjamas in her hand, which she placed at the foot of the bed.

"Tiffy will come back to collect Master Harry's clothing once he's showered and asleep!" Tiffy exclaimed happily, clearly not at all phased by Harry's appearance, and Harry smiled weakly back at her.

"Thank you, Tiffy."

Tiffy's eyes widened drastically, and her mouth hung open for a moment, but only for a moment.

"Master Harry...th-thanks Tiffy..."

Harry cringed, not wanting another 'Dobby incident'. "Yes, um...you can go now."

Seemingly snapping out of her wonderment, Tiffy nodded vehemently, wiping some tears out of her eyes. "Of course, Master Harry! Tiffy will wake Master Harry when supper be ready."

Harry just nodded mutely, and the elf smiled and disappeared with a snap of her long bony fingers.

Once she left, he stumbled out of his clothes and into the shower, and had what was probably the best shower he'd ever had in his life - the water felt incredibly smooth and refreshing on his skin (which really wasn't in good shape at this point), and suffice it to say, he was reluctant to step out. When he did, though, he dried off and changed into the clean, silky pyjamas (which were probably the most expensive thing he'd ever worn) Tiffy had supplied him with, and then proceeded to collapse into the abnormally soft bed (there _had_ to be some sort of spell on it, Harry thought), falling into what should have been a peaceful slumber a few moments later.

But his dreams were not peaceful.

"Ah, Harry, how good of you to join me."

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think of this turn of events.


	38. The Aftermath

**Disclaimer:** yeah, don't own this either.

* * *

 **Chapter 38: The Aftermath**

"Ah, Harry, how good of you to join me."

"What did you do with Tom?" Harry asked accusingly.

The Slytherin prefect raised one dark eyebrow in an annoyingly elegant fashion, crossing his legs as he sat back in the couch – Harry's couch – across from where Harry was standing. "I _am..._ Tom." He said the name with no small amount of disgust in his voice, just like his Tom did whenever he was forced to say his own name.

"You're the wrong Tom," Harry ground out.

The so-called Tom sighed. "We thought you might react like this."

Harry faltered. "...we?"

"Yes, we. Are you aware, Harry, of what happened, down in the Chamber of Secrets?"

Harry smirked, despite himself. "Tom wiped the floor with you, of course."

The boy in front of him sighed exasperatedly. "After that."

"...no."

"Well, then let me enlighten you; the horcruxes – you and the diary – merged."

Harry's eyes widened. "We...merged? How? What does that mean?"

"Despite the spontaneity of the event, the soul fragment inside you was able to infiltrate the occlumency shields of the spectre of Tom Riddle entirely, forcefully collapsing them as it dug into the other fragment's consciousness until it reached its very core," Tom Riddle drawled casually, conspicuously in the way his Tom often explained things to him, "It was thereafter able to mutilate the roots binding the fragment to its spectral form, moving on to further destabilize the already tempestuous magical essence the diary's soul fragment was imbued with. It then created a pathway between the two soul fragments, and when the unstable magic began leaking into this pathway, your own magic recognized it and took hold, allowing the soul fragment inside you to latch on, subsuming it and with it the fragment which once rested in the diary."

A few moments of silence passed.

"I don't know what that means," Harry said finally, not really knowing what Tom Riddle was going on about.

Tom Riddle looked at him disdainfully. "It means that what were once two separate pieces of Lord Voldemort's soul have now become one."

"...I don't understand."

The other boy glared impatiently. "Then _think harder."_

What were once two pieces were now one. The piece of Tom in the diary was gone – clearly, that's what this Tom was trying to get across to him – but that also meant...

Harry stepped backward, stumbling as an icy wave of shock starkly washed over him. "You mean...Tom is...dead?"

Tom Riddle scowled at him. "No, you stupid little boy. _I'm..._ Tom."

"But not my Tom. Not the same..." Harry couldn't finish his sentence; tears were falling down his cheeks, and he felt something horrible twist in his chest. His best friend...his only true friend...the only one who really knew him...the only one who took care of him...

...was gone.

And it was all his fault.

All because he wanted to stop Diary-Tom from killing Draco; all because he wanted to win; all because he was angry; all because, once again, he wanted to play the hero...his best friend was...

He sunk to his knees, stifling sobs. Tom wasn't gone. He couldn't be. He couldn't be. Without Tom...what was there? What did he have without Tom? What would he do without Tom? What -

"Oh for pity's sake, child, pull yourself together."

"You killed him..." Harry whispered hoarsely, feeling something soft and tender crumbling to pieces deep within his chest.

In the meantime, Tom Riddle just raised an eyebrow, looking utterly and unmistakably bored. "No one's died, I assure you, you stupid little boy, and if you'd manage to compose yourself for a moment you'd realize this."

"Realize what?" Harry said hopelessly.

"That the Lord Voldemort you knew hasn't gone anywhere. We are one and the same – only I am...more."

"You don't look like him," Harry said dully.

Tom Riddle looked at him incredulously. "You preferred my old face?"

"Yes," Harry bit out stubbornly.

But Tom Riddle scoffed at him. "Well, that's a pity, it really is, because I find myself rather fond of this skin. I had forgotten...what it is to feel young..."

"Well I liked Tom the way he was," Harry snapped, a brief torrent of anger erupting in his chest, causing the walls to shiver violently around them.

Tom looked almost alarmed for a brief moment, as cracks appeared in the walls, but as soon as the shivering stopped, he leaned forward and fixed Harry with a glare that flickered from brown to blazing crimson. "That is _quite_ enough. You will cease this ridiculously maudlin display and accept what I have told you, before you bring these walls down on us. I am Lord Voldemort, and I won't be questioned. Most certainly not by a snivelling, inept little boy with nothing better to do than sob over his delusional, self imposed grief for the Dark Lord, no less. I knew you were starved for affection, Harry, but must you really be so pathetic?"

Harry's face contorted into something furious, and he rose to his feet, while the stone walls started to tremble once again, cracks spidering across them. "Only Tom is allowed to talk to me like that," Harry hissed.

Tom Riddle rose to his feet as well. "And I am Tom; your ire is unfounded. Calm yourself, _now_."

"Tom is _dead_ -"

"Stop this, _now_ ," Tom Riddle cut in harshly, red eyes flickering from one cracked wall to another, "If this place collapses, both your consciousness and mine will be trapped in the rubble."

A bitter smile crawled over Harry's lips. "I don't care."

Eyes widening, some undecipherable expression flitted across Tom Riddle's face, before it twisted into one of fury. With one smooth movement, he stepped forward and gripped Harry's head with his hands.

Harry had no chance to jerk away before the pain started. It was a familiar pain - the sharp pain Tom often doled out to him when he earned his ire...but this was worse, far worse. Instantly he was weakened and his anger drained away as a fever burned through him and nausea bubbled up in his stomach. Images flashed before his eyes, at first too fast to track, but soon they blurred into focus. Harry, Hermione, and Theo duelling in the Room of Requirement, faces shimmering with a thin layer of sweat. The mirror of Erised. Hogwarts, glistening in the starlight. Stepping into Diagon Alley for the first time, overwhelmed by the foreign sensations. Watching passively as Tom cast the cruciatus curse on Professor Snape. Standing over his parents' grave with a bleeding finger. Those first moments he spent in his new bedroom, tainted by the feeling of guilty victory. Threatening Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia with an exploding cup. Staring into a mirror in the darkness of his cupboard, eyes alight with wonderment. A bloodied face staring back at him in the mirror with crimson eyes and unnerving smile.

 _"We are together, Harry, always. I live vicariously through you, just as in your dreams, you live vicariously through me. Magic has bound us together, and nothing can tear us apart."_

Harry gasped desperately for air when the pain suddenly disappeared, and he fell to the floor, coughing wretchedly. A moment later, he dared to look up, and before him was not Tom Riddle, the Slytherin prefect - it was Lord Voldemort, skin white and face serpentine, draped in black.

"Who but I knows of your past, your silent history you hide from the eyes of all? Who but I knows you? No one, you foolish little boy."

"Tom..." Harry whispered.

"Better?" Tom said flatly.

Harry moved his mouth, but no sounds came out.

"I'll take that as a yes. Did you really think that a fragment of my sixteen-year-old self's soul could best me? Do you think me weak, Harry?"

"N-no...never..." He took a deep breath, and a moment later he felt completely rejuvenated. Perks of being in his own mind, he supposed.

Tom sat back down on the couch, a bored look having reappeared on his face.

"You're...are you...really my Tom?"

Tom didn't dignify that with an answer. "We have much to discuss. Come, sit."

Slowly, Harry took small steps toward the couch, withering slightly under Tom's irritated crimson glare.

After about half a minute, he managed to convince his body to sit down at the very edge of the couch, as far away from his supposed best friend as he could.

"Are you quite done?"

Harry shifted in his seat. "...I think so."

"There has been a change in plans."

Harry blinked. "Which plans?"

"All of them."

Harry gaped. " _All_ of them?"

"Yes, Harry, all of them," Tom said patronizingly.

"Oh, ok," Harry said, not really knowing what else to say.

"We will not be allying ourselves with my master soul."

Harry was gaping again. "We won't?"

Tom glared at him. "Yes, Harry, I believe that's what I just said."

"But...but...why?"

"Merging with the soul of my younger self has reminded me..."

"Reminded you of what?"

"Don't interrupt. It has reminded me of who I was, of what I set out to do – of the path to greatness I had laid before me. The man who I have become...has strayed from this path to greatness. It has been quite some time since I looked at my feet, to discern what path I am on, and it has been even longer since I have looked in the mirror. But as of now, I have been given the chance to do just that. And seeing what I have...I admit, Harry, I have erred."

Harry's eyes widened. Tom rarely ever confessed to being wrong about anything. Of course, Tom was rarely ever wrong, so his figures were a bit skewed...

"I was once a young man such as yourself, Harry, with aspirations to prove myself a powerful wizard, and I made for myself many ambitions - to decimate and rebuild the Ministry of Magic, to rule the Wizarding World, to push the boundaries of magical possibility, to render myself immortal; all worthy desires. But still...while I have undoubtedly dwarfed all those who came before me in power and skill, I have failed to accomplish these goals. Yes, Lord Voldemort is feared and revered above all others, but that is not enough. It will never be enough. I have been deprived of that which I am destined for. Even so, I have never thought to ask myself why...a folly on my part."

Harry's eyes widened even further.

"Merging with my younger self has allowed me the luxury of the clarity of youth while maintaining the knowledge and experience my many years have allowed me, and I understand now."

"Understand what?" Harry asked, unable to keep the wonderment out of his voice.

Tom no doubt noticed his rapt attention, and allowed himself a ghostly semblance of a smile, somewhat smug. "I have wronged myself, Harry; this fact is undeniable when I consider my master soul, as it drifts aimlessly from host to host, clinging to life – the scars of my errors have not healed in him. They have been ripped open again, and again, and with each trauma they grow deeper, mutilating the very nature of his soul. My soul. Looking in the mirror, I can see what I have become, what he has become, and what I see...I do not like. But while I have the tools at my disposal to correct the errors in my ways, to find my way back to the true power I once sought, my master soul does not. Indeed, I believe him to be beyond help.

"I have come to believe that my master soul will never achieve the greatness that we have so longed for. He is incapable - whereas I am not. And knowing this, I must ask myself, why? Why do I endeavour to aid a being lesser than myself, to help him achieve _my_ birthright? It is not he who deserves to bear the title of Lord Voldemort - it is I, and I alone."

Harry's heart leapt in his chest, and he realized that these were words he had been waiting to hear for a long time now. He was not fond of the master soul - no, that was an understatement. He despised him. All Harry knew of Tom's master soul was recklessness and uncontrollable rage - and Tom was so much more than that. Tom was powerful, wise, and he knew so much - he had so much to give to the wizarding world.

"No longer will we work to aide my master soul; instead, I have crafted a new ambition for myself. And the crux of it is this; we will find a way to transfer ownership of Lord Voldemort's soul to myself, and _I_ will be the one to create a new body and with it rule the wizarding world."

Harry didn't know what came over him, but whatever it was caused him to throw his arms around Tom and grip his black robes as tightly as he could.

"I knew it," he heard himself saying, "I knew it. I knew you could do it, Tom."

He didn't care if he didn't make sense. He didn't care that Tom might _crucio_ him. He didn't care how much a fool he looked. His wish had come true. His best friend had seen the truth, and now, they could truly work together, set on achieving the same goal - becoming the greatest wizards to ever live.

"...are you done?" he heard a moment later.

With an enormous blush on his cheeks, he released Tom and plopped back onto his side of the couch. "Sorry...I'm just...happy..."

"Obviously."

Tom snapped his fingers, and before him once again was Tom Riddle, the Slytherin prefect, sitting beside him. "Perhaps you will be less inclined to indulge your disgustingly sentimental tics when I'm in this form."

"Yes, Tom," Harry said contritely. Strange face or not, he was now completely convinced that this was his Tom, just...with a more positive outlook on life.

"Now, if you've cured yourself of whatever idiocy seized you so thoroughly, we can move on."

"Er, to what?" Harry felt like the conversation had already climaxed. He didn't really feel like discussing anything else - he just wanted to revel in what he considered to be a great success.

"To our plan."

"Right, so what's the plan?"

"Control, Harry. I admit myself to be ignorant of the methods required to transfer ownership of a soul, but physical control ownership is not absolute. Our first move will be to monopolize as much of Lord Voldemort's soul as possible."

"Um, how do we do that?"

Tom just quirked an eyebrow.

"Uh...oh! We're going to rehide the horcruxes! So your master soul can't find them!"

"Very good, Harry. We will replace all the horcruxes with fakes."

"So we're going to need to go to Miss Jenkins's house, and then the cave, your grandfather's house, the Room of Hidden things and...where's the cup?"

"My vault."

"Oh, that's easy then. So...where are we going to hide them?"

"The diadem will go to he Chamber of Secrets, and the cup we will switch from my vault to yours. Not your trust fund – the Potter Family vault."

Harry frowned. "I thought that was locked."

Tom rolled his eyes. "You can still make deposits if the account is locked."

"...oh."

"After we have switched those two... I have not yet decided where we will place the ring and the locket...it will be somewhere my master soul will not think to look for them."

"Alright, and what then?"

"Research. We must find a way to transfer ownership of Lord Voldemort's soul to me. We will begin in the Hogwarts library, and work from there."

Harry frowned. "But the Hogwarts library doesn't actually have anything on horcruxes, does it? I thought you had to figure a lot of the process out on your own?"

"I did, but I am not convinced that the Hogwarts library is devoid of useful information. After all, the magic of the soul is not inherently dark - we may not locate any mention of horcruxes, but we may find relevant information nonetheless."

"But...it still won't be enough," Harry pointed out.

"Almost certainly. After searching Hogwarts, we will consider other sources...but information might prove scarce here, in Britain; my travels have taught me that other magical traditions tend to have closer ties to ritualistic magic, and the magic of the spirit and soul. If I recall correctly Japan and India had a fairly rich history of soul magic, and German wizards authored some fascinating books on the subject."

Harry's eyes lit up.

Tom glanced at him. "Yes, I thought you might like that. I -" He frowned. "Someone is trying to wake you."

Harry started. "Oh! It must be Tiffy. I guess dinner's ready."

Tom nodded curtly. "We will speak later."

And with that, everything went black, but only for a moment, until he blinked his eyes open.

Tiffy was standing beside his bed.

"Master Harry Potter sir! Tiffy has come to tell Master Harry that dinner is being ready, sir! And clothes! Tiffy has brought clothes for Master Harry!" The elf avidly gestured toward a pile of clothes folded at the foot of the bed. "Master Draco's clothes that Tiffy has resized specially for Master Harry Potter!"

Harry couldn't help but smile – the elf's energy was infectious, and now that he had had some sleep in a proper bed, he was feeling rather invigorated. In fact, now that he thought about it, he was feeling...extraordinarily pleasant. Actually, it was a bit odd. Somehow, he felt like he...left something behind, or brought something back...from his dream? Maybe?

He shook his head. He was thinking nonsense now. The thought almost made him laugh.

"Thank you, Tiffy," he said cheerily, before realizing his mistake.

The poor elf's eyes bugged out, and she made a strangled sobbing sound. "Master...Harry...thanks...Tiffy..."

She grunted, and then pulled on her ears so hard it had to be painful. "Oh, sir, sir! Tiffy knows not what to do with Master Harry's thanks! Tiffy...Tiffy..." Tears started running down her cheeks. "Tiffy...Tiffy..."

Harry cringed and patted her awkwardly on the head. "It's ok, Tiffy. I just like you, is all."

But then she began bawling. "M-master Harry _likes_ Tiffy!"

Harry almost wanted to start crying himself. These poor, poor creatures. Tom called _him_ starved for affection, but he had nothing on Tiffy and Dobby.

Realizing that he wasn't going to be able to do anything to remedy the situation, he decided it was time to put an end to this, and cleared his throat. "Yes, well, you're welcome, Tiffy. I'm glad I could, er...make you...happy...but I've got to get dressed now."

Tiffy wiped her eyes, blowing her long nose on the ugly pillowcase-garment draped over her person. "Y-yes of course, Master Harry m-must ready himself for dinner...yes..." Tiffy muttered, half to herself, before snapping her fingers and disappearing.

Harry sighed, still feeling rather odd. "Well then."

He laughed quietly to himself before walking over to the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed. Thankfully, they were simple – some black pants and a grey button-up shirt, not unlike Harry's own clothes. Familiar with the styles, he made quick work of dressing himself.

When Harry arrived in the hallway, Draco was waiting for him.

He raised an eyebrow. "You clean up nicely – who would have thought it?"

Harry smiled, feeling too pleased to frown at Draco's statement. "I'm always clean," he said matter-of-factly.

Draco smirked at him.

"So," Harry began, wanting to ask about something that had been bothering him, "I take it your mother doesn't know about how I snapped your leg? Or cursed you? Or terrified you with a venomous snake?"

Draco grimaced. "Yes...father and I -"

"Your father knows about the snake?" Harry asked, alarmed.

"Oh, no, just the other stuff."

Harry sighed in relief.

"I'm not stupid. Anyway, we thought it might be better to...well, you know how mothers can be."

Harry didn't respond - he didn't quite know what to say to that - and Draco grimaced.

"Sorry, I...that was tactless."

Harry shook his head, not feeling especially affected. "No, it's fine...I think I understand. She worries about you, right?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "All the time. It's ridiculous, really."

"Yeah, ridiculous..."

"Did you sleep well?" Draco asked politely, but really, it came off as pompous.

Harry's smile grew. "Yes - quite well. I had the most interesting conversation with an old friend."

Because despite how eventful his dreams were, he _did_ feel quite rested. In fact, he felt, quite inexplicably, rather chipper.

Meanwhile, Draco was looking at him strangely.

After they descended the large staircase, Draco led him through a broad doorway, which led to two rooms. One, which they passed by, appeared to be a grand, massive dining room, populated by a long table and many chairs. The room Draco led him into was a much smaller dining room, the table much more modest but still lit by a rather opulent chandelier hanging overhead.

Seated at two of the four chairs were Draco's parents, and when they noticed their presence, Mrs. Malfoy paused in whatever she was saying to Mr. Malfoy and turned to the boys with a smile.

"Excellent. Dinner has just been served."

Draco looked quite comfortable in the tastefully decorated dining room, so Harry mimicked his movements as they went to sit down at the table, across from Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.

On the table was a feast not unlike their dinners at Hogwarts – so plentiful and colourful that Harry was sure it had to be wasteful. He hoped Tiffy and Dobby would get to eat the leftovers, like he would have been able to at the Dursleys.

Harry stared wide-eyed at the food. "Thank you for inviting me here, Mrs. Malfoy. It was very kind of you."

She smiled at him. "You saved my Draco's life. It's the least we could do. Though, I do hope your guardians do not mind. They must be terribly worried."

Harry grinned humorously, beginning to dish some asparagus onto his plate once it became clear that the Malfoys were all waiting politely for him to begin. "Really, it's more likely that they're disappointed that I didn't die," he couldn't quite help but comment. He smiled to himself as he reached for some carrots.

All three Malfoys were staring at him oddly.

"What?"

"Does Theo laugh when you make jokes like that?" Draco asked with a frown, looking a bit confused and uneasy.

"It depends, but in general he thinks I'm hilarious," Harry said, popping some carrots into his mouth, "Whether or not I try to be."

He looked up to find Draco looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy glanced at each other, their faces reflecting a sentiment Harry was not skilled enough to discern.

Mrs Malfoy composed herself quickly, however. "Are you sure they would not like to be contacted via floo or owl?"

Harry shook his head. "They won't want to be bothered."

Mrs. Malfoy looked at him sternly. "Informing them of your well being is not, as you say, 'bothering them', Mr. Potter," she said reprimandingly, and Harry found himself feeling a bit bad even though he had nothing to feel bad about. The feeling passed in a second, though, and he was once again stuck in his airy state of general pleasantness.

"I believe that what my wife is trying to convey, Mr. Potter, is that your guardians could put us in a...precarious situation with the law if we keep your state and location from them deliberately. Or at least, if an argument could be made to that effect."

Harry frowned, puzzled. "Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape both know I went with you willingly. You can't be accused of kidnapping. Unless...I suppose you could make the argument that Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape were your accomplices, but I don't know how convincing that would be..."

Mr. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. But there are...grey areas within the law that your guardians may be able to exploit."

"I really don't think that will happen, Mr. Malfoy because..." He cringed, not really knowing whether to tell the truth or not. Oh well, might as well, he figured. It's the least he could do, when they were being so nice to him. "Well, because, they're... _muggles,_ you see."

A fork slipped from Mrs. Malfoy's hand, and Mr. Malfoy froze. Meanwhile, Draco was gaping.

"They're _muggles_? No wonder you never want to talk about them!"

Mrs. Malfoy completely lost her composure for a moment, and looked horrified in passing.

Mr. Malfoy recovered first. "Mr. Potter...may I ask how such a thing came to be?" he asked cautiously.

"They're my mother's family – the only family I have left. Dumbledore sent me to live with them for my own safety," he tagged on the end, hoping that would clear up any misunderstandings. It had the opposite of the desired effect.

Mrs. Malfoy was unable to fully contain the fury on her face. "Why that old...you should be with your own kind!"

"He had his reasons," Harry said mildly, "Good reasons, too. I don't really mind, that much...we don't really...get along, but I get to leave in 5 years. It's really ok. I take care of myself just fine."

Mrs. Malfoy sniffed primly. "Your strength of spirit is admirable, Mr Potter," she said, pulling herself together.

He smiled shyly, feeling very affected by the compliment for some reason - again, though, it lasted only a second. "You think so?"

"Indeed, it is. After all, it is no doubt that it was this indomitable spirit that aided you in saving my dear Draco."

The blonde boy blushed a bit.

Harry looked at her sheepishly. "It's a pity Professor Snape doesn't see it this way."

"Well, this isn't the first time your...heroics have gotten you into a bit of trouble," Mr. Malfoy said pointedly.

"Oh, you mean with the Philosopher's Stone? There weren't any heroics," Harry replied simply, "I just wanted to meet Lord Voldemort."

Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy's forks clattered onto their plates once again.

Draco, who had already heard the story, was unfazed.

"My dear boy," Mrs. Malfoy whispered, "Why would you want a thing like that?"

"Well," Harry said slowly, why _did_ he want to meet him again? Oh, right...he wanted to make a friend...better not say that, though. "He did kill my parents. And he tried to kill me...I guess an explanation would have been nice."

Both Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy looked a little white in the face, at that, but Mr. Malfoy recovered first. Harry could not help but notice that they were doing a lot of recovering tonight.

"And what was it like?" Mr. Malfoy asked, something simmering in the lowest tones of the man's baritone voice, some kind of excitement, "To look the Dark Lord in the eye, to be in his presence?"

Harry frowned. "He was rather mean...he tried to kill me, actually. Again."

He got more incredulous looks, so he felt like he might need to explain further.

"I mean, I didn't do anything to him...well, actually I...well, he lied to me, and insulted my parents, without provocation, mind you...so I admit, I did get a bit upset at him..." He grimaced. "I might have called him a parasite too."

"You what?" Draco blurted out.

"Yeah, I know it wasn't very nice of me," Harry said remorsefully, "He just made me really angry, you know?"

No response, so he took that as an invitation to keep talking.

"I really was hoping for a civil conversation " which was very true "- but alas," he sighed dramatically, "It was not meant to be."

Seeing as his story was clearly over, he waited for a response, but received none.

One could have heard a pin drop.

"Mother, father," Draco said suddenly, "May I take Harry out back to play Quidditch?"

"Yes, of course..." Mr. Malfoy said faintly.

Draco eagerly rose from his chair and beckoned for Harry to follow.

Harry smiled brightly at his kind hosts. "Thanks for the meal Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy!"

"Yes, of course, you boys have fun," Mrs. Malfoy said absently.

With one last smile, Harry followed Draco out of the hall.

"I had to get you out of there," the other boy said, "Before you infected my parents with your crazy."

Harry frowned. "I'm not crazy."

"Uh-huh."

* * *

After playing Quidditch in Draco's backyard for a couple of hours, Tiffy called them inside, and escorted them up to bed.

Harry didn't know about Draco, but he found it very difficult to fall asleep so soon after waking up. He found himself wishing that he had his books, or that he and Draco were at least in the same room, so he could continue their conversation on whether defingering hexes were hexes, or actually curses. There was a specific passage in _Magick Moste Evile_ that he had forgotten to mention.

Alas, Harry was left alone with his own thoughts. Eventually, he started pacing, as his mind flitted from topic to topic. First, he was trying to remember the ingredients of the animagus potion Hermione had dug up; then he started thinking about what his animagus form might be. Soon after, he thought about the horcruxes, and tried to brainstorm where to hide the remaining two. There was also the problem, he realized, as he paced from one end of the guest bedroom to the other, of logistics. It would take a lot of Tom's magic to do all the apparating they'd have to do, not to mention all the curse breaking. After all, Harry couldn't actually perform any curse breaking, and it was one thing to cast _Anathema Purgo_ on an empty diary, but to try it on a genuinely curse object...well, there was a possibility that could drain even Harry. No, _Anathema Purgo_ was out of the question, so he'd need Tom's expertise for that also.

If only he didn't have to apparate...

Wait. Maybe...no...could it...?

Yes.

Tom would be so proud.

And with that thought on his mind, he slipped out of his room, on a quest to find Mr. Malfoy.

"Tiffy?" he whispered.

There was a quiet crack, and suddenly the elf was standing beside him with wide eyes. "Master Harry! What -"

"Shh!" Harry hissed frantically. "I need to find Mr. Malfoy. Is he alone?"

Tiffy frowned, but nodded.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Ok...where is he?"

Tiffy pointed down one of the hallways that branched out a few metres down.

"Master Malfoy be down that one, fifth door on the left side," Tiffy said quietly, looking very confused.

Harry nodded. "Thanks Tiffy -"

Tears started to gather in the little elf's eyes, and quickly realizing his mistake, Harry blurted out, "You can go now."

Sniffling, the elf snapped her fingers and disappeared, leaving Harry to sigh in relief.

Following Tiffy's directions, he eventually found himself in front of a tall oak door.

Steeling himself, he rapped twice, wincing slightly at how loud it sounded in the vacant hallway.

There was a pause.

"Come in." Mr. Malfoy's voice was muffled through the thick door, but the words were enunciated clearly.

Timidly, Harry opened the door and slid inside.

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy."

The man frowned slightly, but only slightly. His face, for the most part, was stoic.

"Mr. Potter. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to talk to you, sir, about the diary."

The man paled a few shades. "I beg your pardon?"

Harry's heart was beating quickly in his chest. He was about to try something – something he'd never purposefully done before. He couldn't help but be a little bit excited.

"You should take better care of things that don't belong to you, Mr. Malfoy. I imagine the owner of the diary won't be too pleased when he comes to retrieve it."

The man's face went from pale to deathly white, and the quill in his hands snapped in two.

"You're tired, exhausted, Mr. Potter. You don't know what you're saying."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I think I do. I've only met him twice, and I don't really remember the first time, but I can tell that he's not the forgiving type."

There was a long pause.

"What do you want?" Mr. Malfoy said lowly.

Harry bit back a smile. Normally, he'd feel quite bad about doing this. But this was Lucius Malfoy, a man whose carelessness almost got his son – Harry's new friend – killed. No, he didn't really feel bad about blackmailing Mr. Malfoy at all.

"Two things, Mr. Malfoy, just two."

The man nodded curtly.

"First, I want you to consider something."

"What?" Mr. Malfoy asked, seeming a bit puzzled.

Harry took a step forward. "Filicide."

Mr. Malfoy stiffened.

"It's frowned upon, right? Yes, of course it is. Murdering the person you brought into the world...that's...well, there're no words, are there? And to think! You almost did it by _accident -_ out of _carelessness._ That's actually kind of pathetic, isn't it?"

Mr. Malfoy's face twisted into something furious. "Listen to me, Mr. Potter, when -"

"No, you listen to _me_ ," Harry snapped, "It's not pathetic - your incompetence, your stupidity. It's _cruel_ ; it's _unthinkable._ But I want you to think on it, and think on it, and think on it some more. Consider it until you can't bear it anymore...and then some more. I won't say anything - I'll keep your secret, but I truly, truly hope you hate yourself for it. For almost killing your family."

Mr. Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, his eyes wide, startled, and conveying unmistakable agony, much to Harry's satisfaction.

"And what else...Mr. Potter, can I do for you?" he rasped out.

"My understanding is that you have a house-elf named Dobby..."

* * *

Hehe, you didn't think I'd leave dear Dobby in the employ of the Malfoys, did you? He might be a little piece of work, but his heart's in the right place. And he can apparate.

Anyway, I doubt any of this came as a surprise, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter nonetheless. Leave a review, if you please :)


	39. The Order

**Disclaimer:** I _still_ don't own anything.

 **AN1:** There's a good chance this will be my last post for a few weeks. For anyone who doesn't know, I usually post at least once a week; however, I'm nearing the end of my degree now, and I just can't afford any distractions. This is NOT a hiatus - I'm just putting off posting for 2-6 weeks; I might post sporadically therein, but no promises. I thought this would be a good place to take a break since it marks the end of second year. Really sorry about this, but in all honesty I'm starting to fall apart mentally, and I need to focus on fewer things. I hope you understand.

* * *

 **Chapter 39: The Order**

"Oh, wow, you're looking fantastic. Distinctly unpetrified. Good for you -"

 _"Harry."_

"Er, yes?"

"Shut up."

When Harry and Draco showed up at breakfast that day – only a few weeks before exams were to start – the entire Great Hall had erupted into whispers. Hermione and Theo didn't bother whispering. They just up and kidnapped Harry without a second thought.

"Alright, explain yourself," Hermione said crossly, once she and Theo had dragged Harry into the Room of Hot Chocolate.

"Again, like you did last year when you went off nearly getting killed without saying a word to us," Theo put in unhelpfully.

"I _did_ send you both a letter," Harry said defensively.

Hermione made a noise that could only convey extreme displeasure in the back of her throat, and pulled a small piece of parchment out of her pocket. "Yes, let's see here - _'With Malfoy. Safe, happy, and well fed. Don't worry about me. Most sincerely, Harry James Potter'._ Very informative, Harry. Didn't worry us at _all_."

"You never used to be this sarcastic," Harry mumbled.

"Don't go turning this around on me!"

"Yeah, mate, you're the one on trial here,"

Harry sighed. "Fine, fine. Let's sit down then...this will be a long story."

"Alright," Hermione said as she and Theo sat down across from him, "Explain yourself."

"Well..." He paused. "I'm actually not sure where to begin."

His friends glared at him.

"Right. Well, when Professor Snape came to the Common Room the other night, to call roll, I had this really, really bad feeling -"

"What sort of bad feeling?" Hermione interrupted.

"Um, I don't know...I just figured that if they were calling roll, they had a reason to believe someone went missing, I suppose. Anyway, I followed him out under my invisibility cloak, and he went immediately to a meeting with the other teachers, where he told them that the monster had taken Draco Malfoy down to the Chamber of Secrets -"

" _Draco_?" Theo asked incredulously. "He was _actually_ taken?"

Harry nodded. "It turns out that after Ginny Weasley stole the diary from Hermione, Draco stole it from her, and instead of giving it straight to me like he was supposed to, he tried writing in it...kind of like you did," he said to Hermione.

She frowned. "It's a bit odd, don't you think? That everyone who came in contact with the diary found themselves writing it...I remember - I felt like I just _had_ too. A compulsion charm of some sort?"

"...something like that. Anyway, like I said, Ginny found the diary again, but Draco stole it less than a week later...and soon after, he was taken down to the Chamber. When I found out...well I couldn't just do nothing - no one else would have been able to find him."

"But how did _you_ find him?" Hermione asked, "You actually found the Chamber of Secrets?"

"Well, yes."

"But _how_?"

Theo frowned, nodding.

Harry was prepared for this; he and Tom had already discussed it. He knew that eventually...he would have to come up with the perfect lie - something concrete to tell his friends. Something close enough to the truth to hold up under change and duress, but distant enough so that the truth remained behind a solid barrier of lies. So they'd come to an agreement.

"Well, you see..." He took a deep breath, and looked at them grimly. "No one can know this. No one. Ever."

Hermione and Theo sobered at that.

"We won't say a word," Hermione said softly.

"Not a word. Ever," Theo assured him.

Harry nodded slowly. "Then...you see...it actually started years ago. I started getting these dreams...except...I don't really think they're dreams anymore."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Dreams about what?"

"Dreams about Tom Riddle."

Hermione's eyes went wide, and Theo looked incredibly puzzled. "The boy who originally owned the cursed diary?"

Harry nodded. "He opened the Chamber of Secrets, back in 1943. He had to close it, though, because they were going to shut down the school, so he cursed his diary to possess people to open the Chamber again...you know, finish the job he started."

"But why would you be dreaming about this Tom Riddle person, Harry? He went to school here over fifty years ago, didn't he?" Hermione asked.

"Well, that's the thing," Harry said cautiously, "I don't know. I thought they were just dreams, but then I saw Ginny Weasley's diary...and I understood – they're memories. They told me what the diary did, how to find the Chamber of Secrets..."

"But do you have any idea of where they _come_ from?" Hermione insisted.

Harry made a show of hesitating. He counted off a couple of seconds before he answered. "Actually, yes, I do. I think – I'm not sure – that Tom Riddle...is actually Voldemort."

Both of his friends paled at that, Theo wincing at the name and Hermione drawing in a sharp breath.

"Tom Riddle...is Voldemort?" Hermione whispered.

"I'm pretty sure. It would make sense, wouldn't it? The time frame is right - Voldemort had to have been born before 1940, probably much before, because the war started in the 70s, and I doubt he was younger than 30 at the time - and Tom Riddle was a parselmouth, like Voldemort...he wanted to get rid of all the muggleborns at the school, too. It fits. But really, the most convincing evidence is his name."

"How do you mean?"

"Lord Voldemort is an anagram, you see - if you rearrange the letters of 'Tom Marvolo Riddle', you get 'I am Lord Voldemort'," Harry explained evenly.

Hermione's eyes widened, and Theo's mouth fell open.

"You're not serious," Theo said incredulously.

"I am - try it."

Hermione adopted a thoughtful look on her face, and a moment later, her eyes widened even further. "He's right! It _is_ an anagram."

"Bloody hell," Theo breathed.

"But...how is it that you have Voldemort's memories?"

Harry counted off a couple more seconds. "I think he transferred some of his powers and memories to me the night he attacked me. I think...that might be why I can speak parseltongue; I think that's why my scar hurt whenever Professor Quirrell was around."

Theo looked utterly shocked by the information, and Hermione looked very alarmed.

"Does Professor Dumbledore know? Or Professor Snape?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know what they'd do if they found out...I mean, even in the wizarding world, this can't be _normal_ \- so I mean what I said. No one can know."

Theo nodded resolutely, but Hermione still looked concerned.

"But Harry, didn't Professor Dumbledore want to know how you found Malfoy in the first place?"

"Of course he did. So I told him and Professor Snape that I followed Draco out to the Forbidden Forest – I told them that I found him before he reached the entrance to the Chamber, which I implied was in the forest somewhere. And then I told them that I used this curse called _Anathema Purgo_ to cleanse the diary."

" _Anathema Purgo?_ " Hermione asked curiously, "Curse cleansing?"

"Yeah, it imbues an object with pure dark magic - the sheer magnitude it drains from you is supposed to be able overwrite most curses...in theory, at least."

"That sounds dangerous, Harry! The diary _had_ to have been an exceptionally powerful dark artifact! Overwriting the curse would have been - you could have _died_ Harry! You could have -"

"I didn't actually cast it, Hermione," Harry assured her, "Well, I did, but I did it after the diary was already empty."

"Then how did you get rid of the curse?"

Harry pursed his lips - this was the second part of the story he and Tom had crafted. "I...touched it, and something weird happened. It hurt... _a lot_ – and then I passed out; it was almost exactly like what happened with Quirrell. Honestly...I think it has something to do with the protections my mother placed on me. Dumbledore thinks it has something do do with how she sacrificed her life for mine..." He paused. "Anyway, when I woke up, the diary was empty. No Tom Riddle. No Voldemort"

Hermione looked at him critically. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. Draco and I tested it."

"Then Malfoy knows what really happened," Hermione confirmed.

Harry nodded.

Theo frowned incredulously. "Didn't Draco have anything to say about that?"

"About what?"

Theo raised an eyebrow. "About your little cover story."

"Well, I asked him to lie for me, of course. He owes me his life, after all - it's really the least he could do."

Theo blinked. "I suppose that's true."

"We reached an understanding. We're friends now."

Hermione choked a little, and Theo gaped at him.

"You're...friends...?"

Harry nodded avidly. "I even went over to his house! That's where I was, you know. His mother invited me to stay there for a while – isn't that nice?"

His friends were still gaping at him.

"So wait just a moment," Hermione said, sounding quite flustered, "You went from threatening him into doing your dirty work for you to being invited over for a sleepover?!"

"I, uh, guess so?"

Theo was shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

"Is it?"

"How can you be so bloody likeable?"

Harry grinned bashfully.

"Anyway," he said, "Because I now have him lying for me, I figured I'd lend him a book on occlumency during the summer. And then...maybe...if he proves himself capable, and useful...maybe he can join You-Know-What?"

The other two looked even more shocked, now.

"Wait," Theo said, "You went from hating his guts to wanting to invite him into our secret club."

Harry nodded. It _did_ sound a bit strange, now that he thought about it. "He apologized for everything – I can tell he was sincere, and he _did_ lie for me. Actually, that's twice now. So...I think that there's a _possibility_ we might be able to trust him. We'll test him, of course. We'll ask him to do something for us, to, you know, prove his worth, and if he manages to be useful, and puts the effort into teaching himself occlumency...then maybe. At the very least, it would let me keep a closer eye on him. And...the closer he feels to me - the more he believes I trust him - the less likely he is to betray me."

Hermione nodded slowly. "He _is_ the best at Potions out of anyone in our year, and I've been thinking...brewing the animagus potion might be a little above my skill level, not to mention how hard the ingredients are to find. But Malfoy might just be able to pull it off. At the very least, he probably has better access to the ingredients than we do – there's no way he's _that_ good at potions without being able to practice at home."

"I'd thought of that too."

Theo frowned. "I wouldn't object, but we don't even have a proper name yet -"

"Actually," Hermione interrupted, "I may have thought of something."

Theo's eyebrows rose.

"What is it?"

"The Order of the Midnight Sun," Hermione said slowly, carefully, making sure to enunciate the words clearly.

"The Order of the Midnight Sun?" Theo asked curiously, "What's that mean?"

"Well, I don't know if you ever noticed -" she glanced at Harry "- but your scar, Harry, it's identical to the rune Sowilo, which represents the sun. It symbolizes victory, protection, and wholeness."

Harry grinned, feeling quite amused. "I see. That's rather clever. But what about the midnight part?"

"The midnight sun is a natural phenomenon that occurs around summer solstice in places north of the Arctic Circle - essentially, the sun doesn't set, even at night."

"...so?"

" _So_...I know that we practice the dark arts, and everything, but it's important that we remember why we do it."

Theo nodded resolutely. "To protect one another."

"Exactly. Because even though we're not very old, and we don't know much yet, we understand the world is a dark place."

Understanding dawned on Harry. "And like the Midnight Sun, we will protect each other, and triumph over the darkness. The Midnight Sun – complete and total victory over the night."

Hermione smiled. "Yes, that's it. So what do you think?"

Both boys grinned at her.

"I'm in," Theo said.

"I think it's an excellent idea, Hermione. As always, you're brilliant."

"Why thank you, fearless leader," she said humorously.

Harry went a little red in the face.

"Anyway," Hermione said briskly, "We've got only a few minutes left before breakfast ends, so we should discuss official Order business."

Theo smirked lopsidedly, clearly relishing the new name. "Yeah, _official_ Order business."

Harry grinned. "Of course. What did you want to discuss, Hermione?"

"Our animagus forms. Have either of you had any luck yet?"

Sobering a bit, Harry and Theo both shook their heads.

"Just the same dreams," Harry said morosely.

Hermione nodded. "That's what I thought. I haven't had any luck either, and that's why I've been looking more into the potion."

"And?"

"Like I said, it's hard," Hermione said bitterly. "Really hard. It's easily OWL, if not NEWT stuff. So your idea to recruit Malfoy's help...it might just be the only option we've got."

Harry nodded. "To prove himself – we give him the instructions, and he brews it over the summer for us."

Hermione nodded. "It might be the only plausible plan we've got."

"So if Draco learns occlumency and brews our potion for us, we consider letting him into the Order?" Theo confirmed.

Hermione nodded.

"Excellent," Harry said. "Now, I _really_ wouldn't mind some strawberries..."

Theo frowned, rising to his feet. "You _really_ need to be eating more than strawberries."

"I agree," Hermione said with a scowl.

Harry grinned sheepishly. "Don't worry about me – Mrs. Malfoy's been feeding me really well. A bit too well."

Theo chuckled. "Yeah, she does that."

When they returned to the Great Hall, most of the school had left to enjoy their Saturday afternoons, but Draco was still waiting for them, and upon seeing them, purposefully strode up to them.

"Granger, I'm sorry for what I called you, back in October," he announced without prelude.

Hermione looked completely caught off guard. "You already said that, Malfoy, a while back."

"Yes, but..." he looked at her awkwardly, clearly trying to seem more sure of himself than he was, "I didn't mean it. I'm sincerely apologizing now."

Hermione and Theo were gaping at him, while Harry looked on proudly like a parent whose toddler just learned to walk.

"So, do you accept?" Draco asked, with a nervous glance between her and Harry.

Hermione, recovering from her shock, smiled genuinely. "Of course, Malfoy. I forgive you."

"Now we can all be friends together!" Harry chirped.

He received three withering stares.

"Or...we could start with friendly acquaintances, I guess."

* * *

"On your way to the feast, Professor?"

"Oh, Harry! I didn't see you there!"

Harry smiled. "Do you think we might step back into your office? Just for a few minutes?"

Lockhart tried to muster up one of his dashing smiles. "Well now, Harry, we mustn't be late for the feast -"

"It will only be a moment," Harry said sharply.

"Well, um, yes – very well then, follow me."

Their walk to Lockhart's office was silent and tense – Harry wasn't willing to strike up a conversation until they were in private, and Lockhart was clearly too unnerved to say anything.

"Now, what is it?" Professor Lockhart said, losing his charming demeanour as soon as they entered his office.

"You owe me," Harry said bluntly. "Remember?"

"Well, yes, um -"

"I'm collecting," Harry concluded with finality.

The usually flamboyant man withered under Harry's stony glare. "What do you want?" he asked flatly.

"I want to know, how do you do it? Make the the lies you tell in your books so believable?"

He genuinely wanted to know. Lockhart was clearly a fool and an incompetent wizard – a muggle with magic – and yet, he managed to fool thousands with his half-baked tales of pretend adventure and feigned daring. If Harry could discover his secret...well, having an ability like that could end up saving his life, in the future.

"I...don't know what you're talking about."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie to me, professor. You can't fool me. You can't stand your ground against a few pixies, let alone a werewolf. What's your secret? How do you write such fantastic untruths? It's not a simple matter of lying - you need to plant evidence, fix records, you need knowledge you wouldn't otherwise have; of people, places, and magic. You need access to information you shouldn't have access to."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lockhart bit out again.

Harry sighed. What could he do to make Lockhart talk? He was already blackmailing him, but apparently even Lockhart was smart enough to call his bluff – he wasn't going to tell anyone, he was too curious.

Frustratedly, he began pacing...

" _Obliv-"_

" _Expelliarmus!"_

He caught Lockhart's wand easily, and glared at him viciously. "That's the second time you've tried to do that," he hissed. "It's _extremely_ rude."

Lockhart paled at his tone.

Harry looked at the wand in his hand. He had Lockhart's wand...but now what? How could he convince the man to talk? Threaten to curse him? Snap his wand?

 _But you don't have to..._ a voice hissed in his mind.

Harry froze, and suddenly he felt very odd, like icy water was enveloping his skin. A faint buzz sang quietly in his ears, and his vision blurred - for a moment he was seeing double.

"What d'you mean?" he mumbled, slurring a bit, ignoring the bewildered look on Lockhart's white face.

 _You know the spell, Harry. If you want the truth, take it._

Harry's eyes widened; it took a moment - but he knew what the voice was telling him to do. "No...no...I can't do that, not without his permission."

"Harry," Lockhart began cautiously, "Who are you -"

"Shut up," Harry snapped, suddenly feeling very light-headed.

 _Why not?_ Tom was saying; for it was almost certainly Tom. But how? Tom almost never talked to him in his head - it wasted too much of his magic.

 _What has this man done to deserve your mercy? He's done nothing but lie, play all of you, your teachers, your classmates, like fools. This weak, pathetic creature deserves nothing from you, for he has given you nothing. Indeed, he has wronged you, time and time again._

Harry hesitated. Was this really Tom talking to him? Tom was never this verbose, not when he spoke to him in his mind; he wasn't strong enough. Were these Harry's thoughts? Or Tom's? He was so confused - his mind was a swirling mist, insubstantial and incoherent.

 _He lies, cheats, and takes you for a fool, and if that wasn't enough, he tried to Obliviate you - twice. He tried to steal your memories. He tried to invade your mind – a student, his student – and steal what is yours, what is most dear to you: your own thoughts. He deserves to be punished. He deserves to reap what he has sowed..._

Harry raised his wand shakily, feeling his fingers begin to twitch.

"Harry – what are you -"

 _He is weak, cowardly filth, undeserving of the life and the magic that was given to him. Like all of our kind he was given the opportunity to be great, and he squandered it, and became the snivelling, disgusting, vile creature you see before you. This thief, who would try to break into your mind and steal from you – does he deserve your mercy?_

"No..." Harry whispered, a feeling of revelation and wonderment washing over him.

 _You know the spell, Harry. I know you can do it._

"Harry -"

" _Legilimens."_

Instantly, Harry could feel his awareness being sucked into Lockhart's mind. The man wasn't completely incompetent – he put up a fight; so Harry pressed harder, and harder, until the weak shell surrounding the man's mind shattered. Instantly, he was hit by a strong wave of fear, and he struggled not to lose himself, to be caught up in tumultuous swell of emotion. No, he couldn't afford to be swept away - he had something to find.

 _Show it to me. Show me how you craft your lies._

Images materialized before his eyes, of conversations, stories...

" _Obliviate."_

" _Obliviate."_

" _Obliviate."_

The stories - tales, accounts, records, passwords, data - they were stolen, all of them – this...this...person...man... _thing_...fooled kind, brave people into revealing to him what was most sacred – their thoughts, experiences, and memories – and he...it...stole them away, divesting innocent people of what all human beings have a right to – their own minds.

Weak. Cowardly. Filthy. Vile. Coward. Fool.

How dare this weak, flawed being play god? How dare he? How _dare_ he?

Tom was right. Of course he was. Tom was always right. Tom always knew what to say; Tom always knew what to do. He should listen to him - he should always listen. Tom was always right. He was right. This man...he didn't deserve his mercy. He deserved to reap what he sowed.

And the world around him began to crack.

* * *

"I just realized," Tracey said, as the Slytherins chatted with each other at the Year End Feast, "Nothing happened to Lockhart! He made it through the year!"

Flint smirked. "First I've seen."

"But...but...that means we have to survive another year of him?" Theo said tragically.

Meanwhile, Tracey was frowning beside him. "You know, actually...Lockhart doesn't look so good."

Harry didn't bother looking; he knew what he'd see. He wanted to feel remorse. He wanted to feel horrified...but he didn't. He just felt numb. Vaguely satisfied. Tom's approval was radiating through his mind, and he felt...a sort of vague ecstasy. "Doesn't he?"

Theo looked over his shoulder, squinting.

"Wait...is that...blood coming out of his ear?" Theo's voice was incredulous.

Harry still didn't bother looking. He supposed that a part of him feared the onslaught of fear and horror that might wash over him if he did. "Is it?"

A moment later, an ominous thud sounded throughout the Great Hall - the sound of Lockhart's head meeting his plate.

Chaos erupted in the Great Hall, and suddenly the entire staff was on its feet, tending after the fallen Defence against the Dark Arts professor.

"What do you think happened?" Parkinson asked, bewildered.

"Is he sick?" Millicent asked.

"Maybe he got too full of himself," Tracey joked.

"Maybe he's lost all his memories and fallen into a vegetative state," Harry put in absently. He couldn't help it. He needed to say something. _Something._

Suddenly, he felt all the eyes in the immediate vicinity fall on him.

"...Harry?" Theo said uneasily beside him.

Harry ignored them, and kept eating. He could swear he felt the air around him cool a few degrees.

"Harry," he heard Millicent say shakily, "You didn't..."

Daphne gasped. "You _did_."

He did. He did. Oh gods...oh gods...

 _You did._

Peace suddenly washed over him, and he sighed. "I did nothing, and no one will ever prove otherwise."

A deafening silence ensued.

"Well," Hortense Rowland spoke up, "As of today, I'm no longer a prefect. Therefore, I don't care."

"Well _I_ think whoever offed the idiot performed a public service," Draco said confidently. "Deserve a bloody medal, they do."

Harry smiled subtly, ignoring the cold sweat dripping down his face.

* * *

Harry sighed as he glared at the layer of dust that had settled over the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive. Of course the Dursleys didn't dare enter his bedroom in his absence, which he was both annoyed by and grateful for. Oh well.

"Dobby!"

The elf popped into existence in front of him. "Master Harry Potter sir!"

Harry smiled softly. "Just Harry, Dobby. Is there anything you can do about this dust?"

Dobby looked delighted at the question, and snapped his fingers, and a few moments later all the dust had disappeared.

Harry blinked. "Well, that's handy. Thank you Dobby, excellent work."

The elf beamed at him, soaking in the praise rapturously. "Will Master Harry be needing anything else?"

"Actually, yes, Dobby. We have work to do. Lots of work to do."

* * *

Alright then! That's it - year 2! Next chapter will be a short interlude, but after that, I'll be hopping right into Tom and Harry's horcrux hunt.

Please leave me a review! You know how much I love them.


	40. Interlude: Miserere Mei

**Disclaimer:** I own the laptop used to type this up, and that's about it.

 **AN1:** I'm back! Sorry about the wait guys, it's been a grueling few weeks. On the bright side, my thesis has been submitted! Now I just have to take care of my optimization course, marking exams, job hunting, and vacation planning...*sigh* Anyway, I'm going to try to start posting every week again - it might be a bit difficult, because I've gotten out of the habit of writing every day now, but I'm going to do my best. In the meantime, sorry about the short chapter. I know it's kind of disappointing, after the wait, but don't worry! The next one will be really long. Promise.

 **AN2:** The Latin words in this chapter are from the first 5 minutes of what I think is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written. It's a choral piece called _Miserere Mei, Deus,_ or _Have Mercy on Me, Oh God_ by Gregorio Allegri _._ Look it up - it's worth a listen.

 **AN3 (the important one):** So, I'm reposting this chapter with this note because I accidentally offended some people. I want to start by saying that I am not religious or anti-religious, and neither I nor Harry have any strong personal attachment to the ideas mentioned in this chapter. That being said, I do _mention_ some elements of Christianity in this chapter. Contrary to what some people seem to think, I'm not trying to inexplicably preach what I don't believe in, and if I was trying to convince any of you of something, I'd do a much better job of it - the ideas in this chapter are simply ideas, provided as a part of what I feel is a fairly plausible backstory in order to serve as a catalyst for an emotional event for the protagonist. If you really can't deal with reading anything about religion, then skip to the end - I've put a summary of the chapter down there. Hopefully this is good enough for everyone.

* * *

 **Interlude: Miserere Mei**

 _October, 1985_

A five year old boy sat sobbing under a cold, empty wooden pew, tears glistening blue and red in the stained sunlight. His skin was pale and dusted with a rosy blush mingled with greyish soil, and his hair was tangled and unruly; his eyes were hidden behind cracked lenses, surrounded by frames slightly bent, but behind them, they were bright and alive, glowing an unearthly green, alight with something akin to fear.

"Why aren't you wearing any shoes?"

The boy's gaze snapped upward, drawn immediately to the form of a tall elderly man in strange robes, a gentle smile resting easily on his face.

"D-don't have 'ny."

"Oh? And why's that?"

The man's voice was soft and steady – it was fixed, present, and concrete. It sounded like it belonged, like it was meant to be heard.

"B'cause freaks like me don't d'serve 'ny shoes."

A subtle, delicate frown marred the elderly man's face as he knelt down beside him, and, seeing this, the little boy flinched and backed away, bare feet kicking at the rough carpet. Dirty hands were drawn up around the boy's head, splayed over his face as a pitiful shield.

"Shh...I'm not going to hurt you."

The little boy lowered his guard, peering out from between his fingers. "You're not?"

"Now who would want to hurt a nice little boy like you?"

The child mumbled something under his breath.

"Do you want to maybe come out of there? We can get you a snack."

The little boy shook his head.

"No? What do you want to do, then?"

The boy mumbled something else quietly.

"Well then...how about I tell you a story?"

"...story?"

The kindly man nodded. "About another little boy. His name was Jesus."

And so he told the little boy a story - of another little boy known by thousands before he was even born; of a little boy born into a prophecy, a destiny. He told a story of a child fated to be good and right and holy, who saved the world, and continued to do so with each sin the world suffered. He told a story of cleansing from sin, of sacrifice and baptism - of the power of water and blood, of hope, and faith. He told a story of a better world, where the soul could be saved, and where one day, the righteous dead and a heavenly peace were waiting for the ones cleansed by water and blood.

* * *

 _August, 1993_

 _Miserere mei, Deus:_

 _secundum magnam misericordiam tuam._ _  
_ _Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum,_

 _dele iniquitatem meam._ _  
_ _Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea:_

 _et a peccato meo munda me._ _  
_ _Quoniam iniquitatem meam ego cognosco:_

 _et peccatum meum contra me est semper._ _  
_ _Tibi soli peccavi, et malum coram te feci:_

 _ut justificeris in sermonibus tuis, et vincas cum judicaris._ _  
_ _Ecce enim in iniquitatibus conceptus sum:_

 _et in peccatis concepit me mater mea._ _  
_ _Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti:_

 _incerta et occulta sapientiae tuae manifestasti mihi._

The voices were like waves in the ocean, waxing and waning, swelling and falling; fluid and transient as water itself, they washed over him and immersed him in the essence of what that place was.

Sacred.

"You shouldn't be here."

Harry looked over his shoulder to see Sam Stewart beside him, his face betraying unmistakable discomfort.

He'd been sitting on the creaking metal swings at the playground, idly kicking dust into the air as he swung back and forth, when he saw him – his former best friend, walking down Willow Street. Mildly curious, he'd decided to follow him. What _had_ become of Sam Stewart?

The boy was much taller now, at least a head above Harry, and he was clearly a bit sturdier. But otherwise...the same sandy blonde hair, long and tousled by wind; the same white trainers and red shirt. It was definitely Sam.

Harry's curiosity had doubled when he found that Sam was heading toward the local parish church; he had been there only five times before, many years ago, and he didn't remember much - he hadn't really been in the best frame of mind at the time - however, the place was unmistakable. In its own quiet way, it was rather fantastic-looking, a bit whimsical, like a little piece of magic, right there in Surrey – _magic_ , magic that the muggles worshiped.

The Dursleys were never religious, so Harry had never been given the opportunity to understand the concept of worship; the concept of revering something you cannot see, touch, or hear. Magic was present; magic was vivid; magic was concrete – but this muggle magic, it was none of those. And yet, there seemed to be no denying that it existed – how could a lie enslave millions? There had to be truth in this magic, somehow, and yet it was so insubstantial; Harry didn't believe in miracles - in magic done by no one - and he was pretty sure that if God did exist, he was either cruel or uninterested in what he had created...but still, he couldn't quite bring himself to dismiss the muggle magic entirely. There was something about the concept of the _good_ , the _moral_ , the _sacred_ that was incredibly real and true.

Perhaps those five visits had changed him more than he initially thought.

His heart was beating quickly when he entered the church. It was familiar, but the memories escaped him, tingling like a nervous buzz in the back of his mind; they were there, though, and the place surrounding him drew him in immediately as something significant. It was nowhere near as grand as Hogwarts, but still...it was as though he had been whisked away, to some sacred place; he wasn't in Surrey anymore.

The sanctuary was dimly lit, the wooden pews just barely glistening in the soft golden light. Banisters and columns rose up around him, gilded and ornamented, and on the walls he could see paintings – not of knights and dragons, but of people eating and speaking with one another, or wading in blue water, or dying what appeared to be a gruesome and painful death. It was odd, he thought, that such things would be in a place of worship, but they did not seem out of place; instead, they were familiar. The evangelism of Jesus. The work of John the Baptist. The crucifixion. The martyrdom of Saint Peter. He knew the stories - just barely, but they were there.

Near the front of the room was a dais, upon which a small group of people were gathered – they were the source of those enchanting sounds, those holy syllables that Harry could not understand. They were clad in a soft light, a blue and red and green glow cast upon them by the stained glass behind them, a beautiful piece of art, the likes of which Harry had never seen before. And yet he had. So familiar, yet so far away

"Is that your sister?" Harry asked, pointing up at one of the adolescent girls near the front of the choir.

Sam tensed beside him. "You shouldn't be here."

Somehow, those weren't the words he expected to hear. " _Stay as long as you like,"_ a memory whispered softly, dissonantly.

"Why not?"

"People like _you_ don't belong in places like this."

" _None of us belong here."_

Harry frowned. "People like me?"

"People with the devil in them."

" _We are all God's children."_

"I'm pretty sure I don't have the devil in me." Well, then again, he sort of did.

"You can do things you shouldn't be able to do."

" _You have a gift."_

"That has nothing to do with the devil."

"Then why can you do them?"

" _No one understands the will of God."_

Harry had often wondered where magic came from, but he doubted that was what Sam was talking about. "I was born like this."

"We were all born in sin."

" _You are beautifully and wonderfully made."_

Harry glanced at him, admittedly caught off guard by the statement. The idea that everyone was born already marred by the evils of the world didn't seem all that foreign to him, but it wasn't the sort of thing he expected to hear from the mouth of someone like Sam Stewart; someone...mundane, _normal_. "Really?"

Sam nodded curtly.

"Oh." He didn't know what else to say, really.

Once again, the room was devoured by the ethereal voices of the choir, as both boys fell silent.

"You should go."

"But I don't understand why," Harry persisted.

"You don't belong in a house of God."

" _There is a place for everyone in heaven."_

"But why not?"

Sam sighed, clearly upset.

"Doesn't God love everyone?" Harry prodded.

"...I really don't know."

Harry nodded slowly - that was fair. Again, his gaze strayed once again to the choir. "What are they saying?"

"...have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness...according to the multitude of Thy mercies do away mine offences...I forget the rest."

"That's...very sad."

"It's not."

"It sounds sad to me." Whoever wrote it couldn't have been _happy_ about having to beg for forgiveness, could they have?

"See, that's why you shouldn't be here. You can't understand..."

" _I don't think anyone understands, really."_

Harry frowned. "Understand what?"

"That those are happy words, that give us hope."

" _If we give God faith, he gives us hope in return."_

Harry's frown deepened. "Is it God's mercy that gives you hope, or his greatness?"

"...both, I guess."

Harry nodded slowly. "And what makes God great?"

"Well...his goodness."

" _God is good."_

Harry turned to stare at Sam, who recoiled slightly from his gaze.

He sighed. "Thank you for speaking with me, Sam. It was nice seeing you again."

" _Don't thank me for doing the work of God."_

Sam refused to look at him.

But just as he was leaving, he froze, suddenly seized by a question, a doubt that for some reason he knew would not leave him alone. He didn't know why he wanted to know. He didn't know why he cared what Sam had to say. He just knew he needed to ask - he didn't know if he even truly wanted an answer; he just had to ask. "Sam?"

He looked over his shoulder, and saw the other boy stiffen.

"What?"

"Do you think I'm a bad person?"

He received no answer.

* * *

A thirteen-year-old boy sat on a stiff and weathered swing, hanging from a rickety old swingset, which shuddered and creaked under his weight, meagre as it was. It was nearly midnight, and the the moon was shrouded in mist, the stars hidden behind a grey curtain.

The boy didn't see the faint glow in the sky, nor did he hear the creaking of the swingset – he was trapped in his own mind, caught up in a memory, slowly slipping away from the present, something heavy and bitter stirring in his chest. Breaths slow and shallow, he rose to his feet.

 _I'm collecting._

 _I...don't know what you're talking about._

The boy stumbled, gripping his head in his hands.

 _You don't have to..._

 _You know the spell, Harry._

 _He deserves to be punished. He deserves to reap what he sowed..._

 _...does he deserve your mercy?_

Futile as it was, trembling hands rose to cover the boy's ears.

 _No._

 _Legilimens._

 _Obliviate._

 _Obliviate._

 _Obliviate._

A shuddering breath. A furious pulse of magic. Twisted metal. Broken stone.

 _Obliviate._

"I didn't - it wasn't - I - I'm so...so...sorry..."

* * *

 **Summary:**

1\. Flashback of Harry sneaking into a local church at age 4/5. He meets a minister, who tells him about the character of Jesus Christ, to whom Harry would have had many similarities, were it not for Tom's interference in his destiny. The implication is that these stories appeal to young Harry's sensibilities a great deal, what with the prospect of eternal peace and happiness, acceptance from a higher power, and the possibility that he'll see his parents again.

2\. Back in the present, during his summer holidays, Harry notices Sam Stewart on a walk, and is curious as to what became of his old friend. He follows him to a church, and they chat a little bit about Sam's beliefs. It's clear Sam is uncomfortable speaking with him, so Harry cuts the conversation short and leaves, but not before he asks Sam if he thinks he's a bad person - it's a reflexive question, and even Harry can't quite understand why it's important for him to ask. He receives no answer.

3\. Soon after the church incident, Harry suffers from a flashback of what he did to Lockhart. It is implied that this has a profound impact on his emotional state, and his first reaction is to deny responsibility, before apologizing. The consequences will be made evident next chapter.


	41. Horcrux Hunting

**Disclaimer:** It's here.

 **AN:** About the last 'chapter' (chapter is in quotation marks because I did really mean it when I called it an interlude)...a few people expressed some concern about my inclusion of religion in my story (well...'concern' - some people seemed pretty damn upset about it). I went back and added a bit of a disclaimer and summary at the end of the chapter, if you want to check that out. I basically made a point of saying that I am not religious or anti-religious, and my story won't be either. Religion will be mentioned a few times, but it won't play a huge part in the story, and will only come up a couple more times as a gateway to other ideas.

 _However,_ please do acknowledge I wasn't trying to teach a lesson or make a point; if I wanted to do that, I wouldn't use doctrine that I _actively disagree with_.

I know that religion makes some people uncomfortable, but there will be no preaching, promoting, or condemning here, and none of my main characters are religious. At the same time, in a story that has/does/will mention politics, war, death, torture, abuse, mental illness...there's no point in pretending that religion and religious culture isn't something that exists and influences peoples' worldviews and feelings. Religion has had a tremendous impact on humanity and is something that has introduced a great deal of rich philosophy, narrative, and imagery into our culture, and I honestly don't see why I shouldn't acknowledge that fact in my writing. I used (and will use a few more times) religion as a _plot device;_ I mentioned an idea and used this idea as a catalyst to get Harry to come to terms with something he did that will have an impact on his worldview and his identity.

TL;DR - Religion is a big, interesting, complex idea with some really nice imagery attached to it and happens to have a lot of sub-ideas which are related to important themes in my story. And that's really all there is to it.

* * *

 **Chapter 41: Horcrux Hunting**

Blinking slowly, Harry glanced to the right, sighing when he read the bright neon numbers.

 _09:57_

Glancing up at the window, he recoiled from the thin tendrils of light creeping though, nausea boiling up in his stomach.

"Dobby..." he rasped out.

"Master Harry sir!"

Upon appearing in his bedroom, Dobby paused, frowning. "Is Master Harry still ill?"

Harry nodded weakly. "Could you get me some water?"

Eyes wide and sympathetic, Dobby nodded rapidly. "Of course, sir! Would sir like some food as well?"

Harry shook his head. "No thank you, Dobby."

Dobby frowned again. "Master Harry must eat if he wants his strength back."

Harry smiled feebly, and made to answer, but three loud knocks on his bedroom door interrupted him.

"BOY!"

"I'm still sick!" he hollered hoarsely.

There was no answer, but he heard footsteps retreating from his bedroom door.

Dobby scowled at the door. "Master Harry's filthy muggles must let Master Harry rest and regain his strength!"

Harry's weak smile returned.

"Is Master Harry _sure_ he does not want food?"

Harry nodded. "Maybe later, Dobby. Thank you."

Dobby smiled sadly, snapping his fingers and disappearing. A moment later he appeared with a soft _pop_ , and placed a glass of water on Harry's bedside table.

"Will Master Harry be needing anything else?"

"No Dobby...thank you...you go enjoy your day."

Dobby nodded slowly. "Dobby thinks he will go clog the muggles' drain pipes."

Harry chuckled. "Sounds like a plan, Dobby."

Dobby grinned and snapped his fingers, and disappeared.

Meanwhile, Harry's head was throbbing. It was this nauseating mixture of the hazy, oppressive ache that wouldn't leave him alone and the brutal evidence of Tom's displeasure.

 _You're pathetic,_ Tom bit out, making his opinion even more explicit, which he was especially prone to doing these days. Tom could talk to him now, as it turned out - merging with the diary had strengthened his magical core to the degree that he could now speak to Harry whenever he wished, his voice echoing in Harry's head, loud and clear. He still wasn't particularly talkative, but Harry felt that his presence was more prominent now, which he wasn't yet sure whether he liked or not.

Long story short, Harry had graduated from talking to a mirror to talking into thin air, which he supposed looked slightly less psychotic? He really didn't know.

Meanwhile, Harry sighed, feeling helpless. _I know I'm pathetic. And I hate it. But I can't do anything about it. And I hate that too._ He wouldn't bother voicing his feelings, though - Tom never had patience for that sort of thing.

He settled on attempting to pacify his mental companion. "I'll get out of bed tomorrow morning, Tom."

 _You said that yesterday,_ Tom snarled in his mind.

"I know...I'm sorry..."

 _I don't care that you're sorry. Your_ apologies _are worthless to me - not unlike_ you _are right now_.

"I know..."

What else was he supposed to say?

Harry reached for the cup Dobby had brought for him, but froze as he raised his arm, dropping it a moment later.

"Later..."

 _Pathetic_.

The summer started off on a good note; within the first week of returning from Hogwarts, Harry and Dobby had retrieved all the fake horcruxes from Miss Jenkins's house, and re-hid them in Harry's old cupboard as a temporary measure. Soon after, he began to implement his plan to begin his pre-chosen summer activity – horcrux hunting.

The cup was easy. A trip to Gringotts, and it was over.

The ring had been a little more difficult, however, and the first step had been enlisting Dobby's help.

Life with Dobby had taken some getting used to. Harry had originally been at a loss as to where to put the elf, but together they had eventually decided on the Dursley's attic, where Dobby set up a small cot for himself off in a secluded corner, behind some dust-covered boxes stacked nearly two metres high. Given the amount of dust gathered on them (which he'd worked very hard to convince Dobby not to clean), it was likely that Dobby's makeshift bedroom would not be discovered, but that didn't stop Harry from obsessing over about a hundred different scenarios in which the Dursleys found out. The ensuing conversations ranged from incredibly amusing to disastrous.

Once Dobby's meagre living quarters had been secured, they'd needed to go over the particulars of Dobby's new lifestyle. The elf had initially been shocked when Harry laid out his expectations of him.

"I'll need you to deliver a few letters for me, and apparate me a few places this summer, but other than that, feel free to explore Surrey, or wherever, really. Just stay out of sight."

"But...but...won't Master Harry be needing Dobby to tend to the cooking and cleaning?"

Harry shook his head. "Really Dobby, you are, for all intents and purposes, free – I'm just going to need your help a few times, mostly for transportation purposes."

"But...but..."

"Really, Dobby." Harry smiled softly at the elf. "You're free."

In the meantime, Dobby had been horrified when he found out that it was, in fact, Harry who was to be performing a non-trivial amount of the housework around the Dursleys', not him. He'd tried very hard to convince Harry to let him take over, but Harry was adamant.

"The Dursleys need to see _me_ doing the chores, or else I'll be in a lot of trouble. You don't want me to get in trouble, do you, Dobby?"

"Oh, no, sir! Never, sir!"

Suffice it to say, Dobby was not too fond of the Dursleys.

"Dobby has always been wanting to meet muggles, sir."

"Oh?" Harry had asked idly, "And what do you think of them?"

"Dobby is...underwhelmed, sir."

Harry had chuckled at that. "Not meeting your expectations, Dobby?"

"Dobby wishes he'd never met the muggles, sir. Dobby wishes he could take Master Harry far away where Dobby could serve Master Harry properly."

"One day, Dobby. One day."

The house-elf, while generally very mild mannered, had taken to calling the Dursleys 'Master Harry's filthy muggles' (a title endorsed by Harry himself) and would often amuse both himself and Harry by clogging their drains, hiding their clothes, and rotting their food. He had, of course, asked permission first.

"Dobby is respectfully asking permission to make some mischief, sir."

"Oh, please do, Dobby, please do."

For the first time he could remember, Harry's summer holidays had started as something of an enjoyable affair; as usual, he did a lot of chores in an attempt to avoid conflict of any kind, while pretending to graciously accept the many punishments doled out to him (it never got less amusing, watching the Dursleys go about the futile task of locking him up while he simply switched his schedule to a nocturnal one and used his handy unlocking charm...he supposed that there was a very childish part of him that still took a lot of pleasure in subverting their authority) – however, he now had the luxury of watching the Dursleys panicking over overflowing toilets and missing socks and rotten hams which could in no way be traced back to Harry. It was all very funny, and he continually thanked Dobby for the constant source of entertainment.

"Oh, Dobby is thrilled, sir, to be of use to Master Harry."

But even after all of their bonding over their mutual dislike of the Dursleys, Harry had been nervous about broaching the subject of the errands Tom wanted him to run. Dobby was a good elf; moreover, he was a good person. Harry _tried_ to be a good person...but Tom was basically the polar opposite of a good person by definition, and considering that it was _his_ errands that needed running...well, Tom had a habit of asking Harry to do bad things, which he would typically agree to, and he thought that this fact might very well come to light over the course of their summer errand-running. This had left him in the difficult position of needing Dobby's assistance but being too afraid to ask for it. As usual, Tom was annoyed and said he was being very stupid indeed.

 _It_ belongs _to you. It is yours to do with as you wish. If you don't want it to think poorly of you, order it not to._

However, Harry felt like it wasn't really that simple, and had said as much. He knew that technically Dobby was a piece of _property_ that he owned, but he couldn't help but be fond of the elf, and truth be told, he reveled in the admiration the poor creature showered him with – he didn't want to lose that. In the end, he had decided on having a nice heart-to-heart talk with Dobby.

"Listen, Dobby...you know how I said I'd need your help with some things this summer?"

"Oh yes! Dobby is eager to be helping Master Harry with whatever he be needing."

Harry nodded with a frown. "Dobby..." he began delicately, "There may be things I ask you to do that you will not understand...and I will need to ask you to never breathe a word about them to anyone."

Dobby had gasped at that, looking almost offended. "Oh, Dobby would _never, ever_ betray Master Harry's trust."

"Not even if I asked you to do something bad? Not even if you saw me...hurt someone?"

Dobby shook his head adamantly. "Dobby _trusts_ Master Harry. Dobby trusts that Master Harry is a very decent wizard, a very decent wizard indeed."

"But what if I'm not, Dobby? What if I've done bad things? What if I'm...a dark wizard...like...Mr. Malfoy?"

But when he had said that, Dobby did not looked puzzled or nervous, or horrified like he had anticipated; he simply looked at him with wide, earnest eyes. "Master Harry is nothing like Dobby's old master, sir. Master Harry is kind, good, and fair. Master Harry might practice dark magic, sir, but this is none of Dobby's business, and Dobby believes in Master Harry's good heart. Dobby believes," the elf had said resolutely.

Harry's breath had hitched in his chest when he heard that, and suddenly his heart was beating at an incredible speed. It then occurred to him that never before had he met someone so accepting, so kind; Dobby truly was an amazing person. "Then you swear...to tell no one what I ask you to do? To trust me, and not ask questions?"

"Dobby swears on his life, sir."

"Then Dobby, I need you to find a place called Little Hangleton. It's a small town in the north, and you'll find the grave of someone named Tom Riddle there, who died in 1943."

And that was how Harry had found himself standing in front of the opulent gravestone of Tom Riddle Sr on July 12th, 1993, hand in hand with Dobby.

When they arrived, the church yard had been still and quiet, as though cowed by the presence of the ominous looking Riddle House perched upon a hill in the south. Breathing in the damp, musty air, heavy like the dark clouds overhead, Harry had instantly been reminded of the time he found himself reading _Great Expectations_ while Dudley was rummaging through the video section and Aunt Petunia fiddled with romance novels at the local library. Part of him was hoping an escaped convict might burst onto the scene at any moment, but the other part of him was relieved that it never happened.

"Thank you, Dobby," he said after a minute, "Please meet me back here in three hours."

"Will do, sir!"

After that, the plan was simple. Once Dobby left, Harry allowed Tom to take control of his body, so they could find the Gaunt shack, which, as it turned out, was on the outskirts of the little village. When they reached it, Harry had found himself being glad that he'd let Tom take over.

Whenever Harry's consciousness retreated further into the back of his mind, he still experienced anything his body did, but what he saw was muted, and what he heard was muffled, a fact that he was thankful for when he caught sight of the decrepit old pile of wood and nails that only vaguely resembled a house, and the mutilated snake carcasses nailed to the door; he was even more thankful when they had entered the shack, and were hit by a wall of dust and the smell of rot and mould and God knows what else. Even Tom, who was usually perfectly composed, coughed a bit upon entering, his hand reflexively moving to cover Harry's nose.

It had taken Tom about two hours to remove the plethora of wards and curses he'd placed on the Gaunt Family ring, but the process went smoothly, and Harry was left to doze off in his mind while Tom went about the intricate feat of curse-breaking.

Once Tom had finished, he replaced a few of the invisibility wards before slipping the ring onto Harry's finger for safekeeping; they had not yet decided where to hide it on a more permanent basis, and Harry got the impression that Tom was not especially anxious about this fact, given that the last place one might expect to find one of Lord Voldemort's horcruxes would be on the middle finger of Harry Potter's right hand.

After that, the process of replacing all the wards and curses on the replica passed without incident as well.

All in all, retrieving and replacing Tom's second horcrux was a relatively easy job with Dobby's help, but Slytherin's locket would inevitably prove much more difficult. Because of that, Tom had allowed him a short respite before they moved on to the last horcrux, which proved to be a grave mistake.

Harry's brief summer break (his real summer break) had started well. He started by reviewing his spell-crafting manual and an old physics textbook – he was planning on crafting his very own spell; a task he was both apprehensive and excited about.

It started out simple – he just needed to review the theory of magnetism, and gather all the necessary equations. Harry wasn't sure how much detail he needed to go into, so he did a lot of research first; after reviewing the high school text he borrowed from the library, he looked for a first year university physics book, and after that a second year one...but at that point he had gotten very lost in the realm of quantum mechanics, so he could only hope that a basic understanding of magnetic fields would suffice. That's right. He was crafting a spell that, if successfully cast, would magnetize objects.

The next step had been to translate all the physics formulas into arithmantic formulas, which, again, had been a fairly straightforward step. Well, _fairly_ straightforward - it wasn't simple by any means. After that, though, he needed to craft _arrays_. Arrays were geometric representations of arithmantic formulas that performed the precarious task of isolating properties of the runes that would be needed to be taken into account while crafting the spell. This was the step where spell crafting went from being a hard science to being something of an art, because it was up to Harry to decide which isolated properties were worth working with. The next step would be to research the runes and use them to shape the wand movements and tweak the incantation.

Long story short, Harry was doing a lot of thinking. And while that was usually a good thing, a busy mind is an active mind, and an active mind is a mind more likely to get carried away. And get carried away Harry's mind did.

He started thinking about things. About life, you know? How far he'd come, what had changed, how _he'd_ changed; how he'd become what he was, and what he was becoming.

It started as a vague itch – the feeling he had overlooked something. But he didn't know what - it seemed so far away.

And then he'd spoken with Sam Stewart, and returned to...that place.

 _Miserere mei, Deus._ Have mercy on me, oh God.

There was something about those words that resonated in Harry - something so incredibly sad. The choir, Sam, they all had these stoic, passive looks on their faces, like the whole thing was _mundane_ , but those words, and the way they sung them - was Harry the only one who could hear the despair in them?

Someone was begging for mercy, begging to someone they could not see, hear, or touch, because they couldn't shoulder the burden alone - because it was just too much.

 _Have mercy -_ he'd heard the words in his dreams many times, delivered to Tom in desperation and fear. Fear of torture. Fear of death. This person, begging for mercy, must have believed with all his being that he had done something truly depraved, something terrible enough to stir up the fury of a God who was supposedly all-benevolent. The thought was terrifying.

And yet, Sam said, those words gave him hope.

Perhaps he'd never done anything that he believed would warrant God's wrath, Harry had thought. Perhaps he'd just never done anything that bad. He just didn't know what it was like, and remained unaffected.

Then why was Harry so affected? Why did the words feel so heavy, oppressive? Harry didn't even believe in God, and he'd never done anything that bad, had he?

Had he?

"Do you think I'm a bad person?" he'd asked Sam. He had received no answer, and upon leaving the church, and assuring himself, "No, I'm not a bad person," he was suddenly gripped by this terrible thought. _That's a lie_.

"What makes you a bad person?" he had wondered. Was it doing bad things? No, of course not - people often said that good people did bad things...but was it possible to do something _so bad_ that you could no longer be a good person after doing it? That you're no longer _yourself?_ A betrayal of identity. If so, he surely hadn't done anything that bad, had he?

But he had. Lockhart.

Then his mind had ground to a halt. Wait, what happened to Lockhart? What did he do?

What did he _do?_

Suddenly it was happening all over again. He was there, in Lockhart's office, wand raised, magic flaring. Why was he doing this? Why? But he couldn't stop it. He just had to watch the whole thing play out, helpless, trapped, drowning in a tempest of wild rage he couldn't control.

And he couldn't handle it. It was too much. It wasn't him. And yet it was.

He was pretty sure he'd accidentally destroyed half of the playground he had frequented as a young child, but he wasn't quite sure; he'd stumbled back to the Dursleys that night, and had left his bed a grand total of seven times since.

He was just...so, so tired. His limbs were heavy and his eyelids heavier still; his vision was more strained than usual and his skin had gone an unpleasant sort of numb. But worst of all was his mind. It had gone dark and sludge-like and somnolent, and any decent train of thought he managed would go spiralling down into shadow as surely as it had come. Everything was just...slow. He didn't know why, and truth be told, he couldn't bring himself to care. He simply didn't want to do anything, and he didn't want to be bothered about it.

Dobby had been...incredibly understanding; the Dursleys...less so, but they were too worried about catching whatever had infected Harry to bother him too much. And Tom had been...patient. Well, perhaps not patient - he was silent. At first Harry was grateful, but then he started to get worried.

"What happened, Tom?"

No answer.

"Why did I do that, Tom?"

Silence.

"It was just a dream, right? I mean I didn't - I wouldn't - "

Nothing.

"Talk to me, please!"

It was three days before Tom had said anything.

 _Are you done?_

He hadn't known how to respond to that.

And now, three more days later, it seems that Tom had lost his patience.

 _That's it. I have indulged you long enough. If you won't even_ move, _we will plan. You have one more day to pull yourself together – after that I will not allow you to sleep until you have completed this task._

Harry grit his teeth, forcing down the inexplicable measure of dread at the thought of leaving his bedroom, as much as he loathed the place.

"Fine."

He needed to get out of bed. He had things to do, he knew that. But he couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't.

He had to.

Ok, so how did he do this? He was lethargic, drowsy, in pain, and unable to focus, and that needed to change.

Then it hit him - there were potions for this. The wakefulness potion and the wit-sharpening potion. Those would be perfect. The wakefulness potion would cure the drowsiness, and if taken in a high enough dose, provoked hyper-activity, which would counteract the lethargy. And the wit-sharpening potion would help him focus. Neither were supposed to be taken by underage witches and wizards, but...well, what's the worst that could happen? He could do this. He just needed to send a letter to Draco. Which means he had to make it to the post office...which he could do. And while he waited for a response from Draco, he would plan...which he would most certainly need to do.

By the time Tom had created his last horcrux, he'd become very paranoid, and this was evident in the protections he'd placed around it, which were so elaborate that he'd needed assistance in order to test them. It stood to reason that Harry would also need assistance to get past the obstacles Tom had put in place.

For Tom, the answer to this conundrum was simple.

 _Use the elf. It will survive._

But Harry was adamantly against this; even in his lethargic state, his refusal was vehement. There was no way he would do that to his new friend. Tom, of course, and anticipated this answer, and had a back up plan.

 _Use a muggle._

And thus was Harry faced by a terrible ethical dilemma. Well, actually, it wasn't a dilemma at all – he knew what he had to do...he just really, really didn't want to do it. That is, he wanted to do it even less than he wanted to do anything else. He disliked muggles as much as the next wizard, and was perfectly happy to avoid them at all costs, but he wasn't prepared to torture one – he didn't know if he had it in him to force the Drink of Despair down some innocent muggle's throat.

In the end, though, there was a solution to that too – he just wouldn't use an innocent muggle. It then became a matter of asking himself the question, what's the most despicable sort of muggle imaginable? He almost immediately knew the answer.

As it turned out, polyjuice he had offhandedly asked Draco to brew at the beginning of the summer would come in handy, because soon, Harry had a plan - Tom claimed it was a ridiculous plan, but it was still a plan.

1 dose of polyjuice potion, 4 doses of wakefulness potion, 4 doses of wit-sharpening potion.

And that was how, several days later, he found himself in one of the seedier parts of muggle London as the evening veered toward twilight, transformed into an exact genetic copy of Miss Jenkins and doing his best to look very lost and afraid while inexplicable pulses of glee bubbled up inside of him at random intervals - probably a result of taking 4 times the adult dosage of wakefulness potion or wit-sharpening potion, but he couldn't be sure.

 _This is degrading._

Harry giggled at that.

It took a few hours, but eventually, he found what he was looking for – more precisely, it found him.

"Oi, gorgeous," a voice called after him while he tripped down a particularly dark alleyway in Miss Jenkins's stilettos, tugging on the exceptionally short scoop neck dress he'd picked out from her closet. Dressing himself in the proper undergarments and said skimpy dress had been an ordeal indeed, but the true adventure had been combing his long, strawberry blonde hair, powdering his cheeks with blush, and glossing his lips. He really did want to look the part. After all that bother, he would admit to being a little disappointed - part of him felt like after all that, he should be taking an afternoon to gallivant about in London, but he knew Tom would have had no patience for such a thing.

At the sound of the man's voice, he spun around at the sound, widening his eyes fearfully. "I...um...I..."

"Now what's a pretty lady like you doin' in a place like this? Lost are we?"

Inwardly grinning, Harry nodded miserably, sniffling a little. For added effect, he stuck his bottom lip - which he had precariously painted in shimmering pink lip gloss - out in a pout.

The man in front of him, a lanky man with black hair only slightly dusted with grey, leered as he sauntered up to him. "Now, don't you worry your pretty little head 'bout that. Why don' you come with me?"

"Um...wh-where?"

The man grinned at him, making Harry shiver. "Don't you worry 'bout that. Trust me. We can make you feel _all better._ "

Suddenly, the man reached forward and seized his shoulder with one hand and used the other to take hold of Harry's chin.

"Please...let go of me..."

 _Filthy muggle...vile creature...scum..._

"Not gonna happen gorgeous."

"Wh-what are you going to do to me?"

The man chuckled cruelly. "I told you – I'm gonna make you feel _all better."_

"B-but I don't want -"

"I don't care what you want, sweetheart."

There we go. That's what he needed.

In an instant, his demeanour changed, and he stiffened, narrowing his eyes and fixing the man with a cold glare.

"Stop," he said firmly, drawing as much magic into his words as he could.

The man froze, eyes widening as his body seized up.

"Step back."

The man did just that.

"And stay still. What's your name?"

"R-r-robert."

"Alright Mr. Robert," Harry said as he dusted off the places where Robert had touched him, his polite tone belying the disgust he felt, "I'm going to help you out. I'm going to help you make something of yourself, before the end of your pathetic muggle life. You should thank me," he said with an empty grin. The cocktail of potions was affecting him again, and he shivered with nervous energy.

"Y-yes. Th-thank you."

"Don't mention it!"

He could hear Tom chuckling in his mind.

"Dobby!"

A quiet crack sounded. "Yes sir!"

Harry smiled at the elf, the high feeling bubbling up in his chest calmed slightly by his presence. "Please apparate us to the place I showed you, good sir."

An instant later, Harry and Robert were breathing in ephemeral saltwater a hundred feet above the ocean, backed against a clammy stone wall, standing in a hollowed out cliffside. Across from them was another cliff – a sheer drop, deathly smooth aside from the cave mouth hovering near the water at its base. Harry peered over the edge, heart rate increasing when he observed the jagged semblance of a staircase carved out in the stones below him.

He turned to Robert, who was deathly pale and looked like he was going to lose his lunch at any moment.

"W-what – h-how did we – where -"

"Shut up." The euphoric feeling was suddenly absent, and he was feeling decidedly unamused.

But Robert didn't listen. "W-where are we? How did we - ? Oh, god, what is that thing?!"

Harry scowled at him. "That _thing_ is my friend."

"Your...your what?"

"Shut up," Harry said again, frowning. Despite how carefully he'd chosen his victim – no, assistant – he was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable about the whole thing. He shook his head – no, this man was a would-be sex-offender, and given his demeanour, it wouldn't have been the first time either. This was a muggle, one rotten to the core – he didn't need to feel guilty. He didn't.

"What _are_ you?" Robert interupted his thoughts.

He blinked. "A person."

"No fucking way - some sort of _demon_ or -"

"Yes, yes, something like that. You go first," Harry cut in.

"What, down there?" Robert sputtered.

"There aren't a lot of other options," Harry pointed out flatly.

'"N-no! What are you – you're crazy, lady, fucking crazy!"

Harry glared at him. "And you're a sex offender. Now climb or I push you," Harry bluffed. "The fall won't kill you...probably."

Thankfully, Robert seemed to buy it, and slowly started to make his way down the jagged cliff side.

Harry turned to Dobby. "He's a very bad man, Dobby, so I'm helping him redeem himself by assisting me in finding something."

Dobby gasped. "Oh, how gracious of Master Harry."

 _Oh yes, how gracious._

Harry smiled weakly and nodded, clumsily pushing the long blond locks out of his face and reaching down to remove his highly inconvenient footwear.

"But sir...Dobby must wonder...why Master Harry has not given Dobby this task."

Harry shook his head. "This task is far too dangerous, Dobby. I'd never forgive myself if something bad happened to you."

"Master Harry is so kind," Dobby whispered rapturously.

 _If it only knew._

Harry smiled, this one just as weak as the last. "Wait here for me, Dobby. I'll only be a few hours."

"Of course sir!"

The path down the cliff was just as treacherous as it had been in Tom's memories, and Harry would confess to being terrified out of his mind the whole time. A clear path was cut out of the rocks, jagged and jutting out of the cliff side like a stairway, and the footing was sturdy – no, it wasn't the craggy stairwell itself that was the problem; it was the thin layer of saline dampness that covered it.

As he climbed, he forced himself to look at his feet – he didn't dare peer out at the vastness of the ocean before him, or check on Robert's progress; one foot at a time – that's all he could focus on. Besides, if Robert had taken a tumble, he would have heard it. Probably.

Thankfully, when he reached the bottom, Robert was waiting there for him, shivering.

Harry stared at him for a long moment, before pointing at the cliff about ten metres away.

"You see that cave? That's where we're going. You'll have to swim, obviously."

Robert glared at him. "No way, lady. It's friggin' freezing -"

"Do I look like I care?" Harry snapped, suddenly extraordinarily irritated. "In the water. Now."

"Piss off."

Harry narrowed his eyes, and mustering all his strength of mind, willed Robert to obey. _"In. Now."_

Eyes glazing over slightly, Robert obeyed, beginning to jerkily swim toward the cave.

Harry grimaced as he stared at the water below him. He knew how to swim, but he'd never even seen the ocean before (not really), and now that he had, he had to say: it was intimidating. The sour smell of salt filled his nostrils, and a film of sea spray was constantly hovering in the air around him, cool and wet.

 _Harry._

Grimacing, Harry glided into the water, following after Robert.

Several metres and minutes of teeth-chattering later, he was swimming into the dark crevice in the cliff side. The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Harry could tell would be filled to the brim with water at high tide. The slimy walls were barely three feet apart and glimmered black and green in the sunlight reflecting off the waves, which swirled this way and that, bouncing off the cavern walls and washing over Harry's face.

When he finally reached the end of the watery tunnel, Robert was standing inside, still shivering, and Harry nodded to acknowledge his presence, and held out his hand.

" _Lumos,"_ he whispered, and a small orb of golden light appeared in his hand.

"W-what the b-bloody hell is that?"

"A torch," Harry said flatly.

"It don't look like -"

"Shut up."

Harry looked around, around the small, cold antechamber, squinting as he stared at the walls.

 _The one behind you. You'll need his blood to open it._

"Take your knife out of your pocket and cut your hand."

Robert stared at him, looking incredibly disturbed. "H-how do you know I have kn-knife in my pocket?"

A burst of euphoria erupted inside Harry, and he couldn't quite hold in a giggle. "You don't really expect me to believe you attempted to assault me without a weapon, do you? You're a _bad guy_ , and bad guys _always_ have knives. "

Robert glared at him, plunging his hand into his pocket and emerging with a small pocket knife. He paused, and then pointed the knife at Harry, stepping forward.

But Harry just rolled his eyes, not cowed at all by the muggle weapon. " _Cut your hand."_

Jerkily, Robert did jut that, wincing.

"How are you _doing_ that?! Making me do things -"

"I have magic powers," Harry said happily.

"What now?" the man spat out.

Harry gestured toward the wall he stood in front of.

"Place your hand here," Harry ordered.

With a sour look on his face, Robert did so, and the blazing silver outline of an arch had appeared in the wall: The blood-spattered rock within it simply vanished, leaving an opening into what seemed to be total darkness.

"Holy shitting fu-!"

Harry glared at him, the glee gone. "Must you be so crude?"

Robert glared right back at him. "Look, lady, you don't get to -"

"I get to do whatever I want," Harry hissed. "Now in."

As they passed through the archway, the walls seemed to close in around them, but a moment later, the opened up, revealing an eerie sight. They were standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Harry could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so high that the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty greenish light shone far away in what looked like the middle of the lake; it was reflected in the still water below, the the smooth surface standing as glassy as a mirror. The greenish glow and the light from Harry's _lumos_ were the only things that broke the otherwise immersive, tranquil blackness, though their rays did not shatter the darkness as much as they should have. The shadows were somehow denser than normal darkness.

 _Remember to stay away from the water._

"If you step in the water you might die," Harry warned bluntly

Robert froze. "You're taking the piss, right?"

"No. Obviously."

"Well shit."

"Stop swearing," Harry said, annoyed, "And follow me."

He set off around the edge of the lake, and Robert followed close behind him. Their footsteps made echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock that surrounded the massive lake, interrupting the silence in an eerie manner. Their path was dark and monotonous, seeming to remain still as they walked on; on one side of them, the rough cavern wall loomed up and over them, on the other side, the boundless surface of smooth, glassy blackness stretched out across the expanse, the green glow remaining still like a fixed point.

 _Here._

Abruptly, Harry halted, hearing Robert come to a stumbling halt behind him. He reached up, grasping around blindly, until he felt what he was looking for, and pulled.

Immediately a thick coppery green chain appeared out of thin air, extending from the depths of the water into Harry's fist.

He looked over his shoulder. "Help me pull."

Reluctantly and seemingly in a slight daze, Robert walked over and began to pull on the chain; a moment later, a small boat emerged from the water, casting ominous ripples outwards as they pulled it to the shore.

"In," Harry ordered, feeling very much like Draco Malfoy.

Robert reluctantly obeyed, and Harry followed behind him, coiling the chain onto the floor.

"There's no oars."

Harry ignored him. "Remember, hands inside."

A sweeping, fluid sound filled their ears, the sound of the boat gliding through the water, unaided.

"What the -"

"Shut up."

Soon they could no longer see the walls of the cavern, giving the illusion that they were trapped in a black expanse of pure shadow. As they glided along, Harry looked down and saw the reflected gold of his _lumos_ sparkling and glittering on the tarry surface below, which rippled in the boat's wake, carving deep grooves in the gold-gilded black. All was smooth, quiet, and almost peaceful...until then Harry saw it - marble white, floating inches below the surface.

"The hell!?"

Apparently Robert saw it too.

"Is that – shit – a human hand?"

"I'm sure it was your imagination," Harry said softly.

"Pretty sure it – HOLY FUCK!" Robert shouted hysterically, pointing a little ways ahead.

The light of Harry's _lumos_ had slid over a fresh patch of water and showed them, this time, a dead man lying face-up inches beneath the surface, his open eyes misted as though with cobwebs, his pale blonde hair hair and his faded grey robes swirling around him like smoke.

"There are bodies in here! Bloody dead bodies!" Robert was nearly screeching.

Harry sighed. "Ignore them. And don't touch the water."

"You...you cunt! Where the fu-"

"Shut _up_ you vile, depraved muggle, or I swear, you'll end up just like them!" Harry snapped.

Seemingly falling into a state of shock, Robert stared at his hands, hyperventilating slightly.

Meanwhile, Harry turned his head to look at the greenish glow toward which the boat was still smoothly sailing, unimpeded. Sure enough, the greenish light seemed to be growing larger and brighter as they floated closer, and within minutes, the boat had come to a halt, bumping gently into something that they could not see at first, but when Harry raised his illuminated wand he saw that they had reached the small island of smooth rock in the centre of the lake.

 _Step out carefully,_ Tom warned.

"Remember not to touch the water," Harry relayed the sentiment to Robert, who nodded frantically.

The island was an expanse of flat dark stone on which stood nothing but the source of that greenish light, which glowed bright and harsh, attacking their eyes with an eerie hue. As they approached they saw that the light was coming from a stone basin, which was set on top of a pedestal.

Harry walked over and peered inside. Sure enough, the basin was full of an emerald liquid emitting the phosphorescent glow that lit the cavern.

"'s that?"

"A potion," Harry said absently, pulling a small glass out of his backpack.. "You're going to drink this."

"No. No way."

Harry thrust the glass into his hand. _"Drink the potion."_

Jerkily, Robert nodded, and knelt down beside the basin.

"Don't stop. No matter what, don't stop."

Silently, Harry was crossing his fingers, hoping that the weak compulsion he asserted over Robert would be enough to keep the man drinking – but he had no such luck. Within minutes, Harry found himself force-feeding the potion to Robert, who had collapsed beside the pedestal and was moaning pathetically.

"Please...no more..."

"No...I'm sorry...don't hurt me anymore..."

"Please...stop..."

It became harder and harder for Harry to carry on with his task, and he had to keep reminding himself that this was a very bad man, that he deserved to suffer. Thankfully, Tom was constantly goading him on, giving him, if only barely, the strength to carry on with his task.

 _It's too late to turn back now, Harry._

"No...please..."

 _You can do this. It's just a muggle. A cruel, pathetic muggle._

"It has to stop...it has to..."

"Not yet," Harry whispered weakly.

"Please...kill me..."

Harry grit his teeth. "Keep drinking," he ground out, voice wavering.

As soon as he reached the bottom of the basin, Harry wasted no time in fishing the locket out and pulling it over his head, replacing it with the fake he had in his pocket. Immediately, the glowing green liquid erupted from the sides of the basin, filling it once more.

His task completed, Harry, pulled Robert back into the boat, careful to avoid touching the water below, which had once again gone still as death itself. Once he'd completed that treacherous task, he began the long journey back to the shore, breathing heavily as he listened to Robert's whimpers.

When they reached the shore he helped Robert out of the boat, but then froze.

What did he do now? The muggle knew. The muggle knew everything. He'd seen his magic, the cave, Tom's horcrux – he knew everything.

In the back of his mind he could feel a subtle wave of smugness radiating from Tom's consciousness.

"Please...stop this...kill me..."

Harry closed his eyes.

 _You know what you have to do, Harry,_ Tom said gleefully.

Harry grit his teeth. There had to be another way. There had to be.

"You could _obliviate_ him," Harry suggested weakly.

 _No._

"No?" Harry echoed, trying but failing to erase the hysterical tone from his voice.

 _I refuse,_ Tom confirmed smugly.

"P-please...end it...I can't...anymore..."

Harry let out a shaky breath, feeling his entire form shudder. "No one would believe him."

 _The wrong people might. You know what you have to do, Harry._

Again Harry closed his eyes, which were suddenly stinging.

 _Need I remind you what's at stake here, Harry? Need I remind you what they would do to us if they knew what you are?_

No, no, he really didn't.

"A-alright, Robert...walk into the water."

Tom chuckled.

But the man only rocked back and forth, shaking his head.

Harry took another deep, quivering breath, before he stepped forward and gave Robert a light push, causing hims to stumble backwards, into the water.

Suddenly, the surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, coming alive, and everywhere Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the shore, rushing sluggishly over to the shore, tripping over each other clumsily and flapping in the water.

Heart beating quickly, Harry backed away, watching as Robert went stiff from fright. Feeling something cold and terrified washing over him, Harry began to run, glancing over his shoulder and watching as Robert was dragged into the water by dozens of waterlogged, pale hands.

In the end, he couldn't watch; he could only run, Tom's cheery laughs echoing in his mind.

He didn't look back as he ran, and swam, and climbed.

* * *

Harry was exhausted, lying on his back while guilty tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. He was now himself again - a scrawny thirteen year old with messy black hair and bright green eyes - but while he had removed the awkwardly large bra, which lay discarded somewhere near the cave, he was still dressed in Miss Jenkins's black and white polka-dotted dress, which smelled of seawater.

At least he didn't feel like... _that_ anymore – this was a much more natural sort of misery...but misery nonetheless.

After all, the denial was gone and his mind wallowed in hapless despair no more; the confusion had evaporated - he had done this. He knew that. He knew what he had done, and why he had done it. It was horrifying, and yet - it was a relief.

The whys and the hows were no longer a mystery to him, and some ho this gave him...hope, though he didn't know why.

Absently, he removed the locket from his neck, and began to run his fingers over the smooth, grooved surface. It was gaudy and gold, the bejewelled 'S' shape gleaming, but tarnished and dirty, reflecting it's age. It was light in his hand.

Too light.

He frowned. Something didn't feel right. Now that he got a closer look at it, it looked...wrong. Like it didn't quite match his memories. What was more, it didn't feel like a horcrux.

 _:Open,:_ he hissed...but nothing happened.

Harry stared at it, bewildered, tears forgotten. "I thought that was supposed to open it."

 _It was._ Tom did not sound happy – no, his voice was trembling in Harry's mind.

 _:Open?:_ Harry tried again, but to no avail.

The locket remained closed.

Fingering the sides, Harry felt for the latch, pressing it hard between his fingers until the locket popped open, a fragment of parchment tumbling out.

He picked it up carefully, ignoring the hollow, despairing ache he felt in his chest.

 _To the Dark Lord,_

 _I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more._

 _R.A.B._

Harry froze, and he felt his entire body go numb.

"A fake..." he whispered in shock.

Pain erupted in his skull, causing his body to seize and shudder, as the locket went flying across the room.

 _Regulus..._

* * *

"Wh-who?" Harry asked more than an hour later, trying very hard to keep the hysteria out of his voice as he lay on his bed shaking, both from the phantom pain in his head and the gripping disappointment he felt in his heart for failing Tom.

He'd failed. After all that, he'd failed.

 _Regulus Arcturus Black,_ Tom hissed out furiously, _One of my Death Eaters, a member of the House of Black – he disappeared in 1979._ His words were biting and stiff.

"A-and you t-told him...about...your h-horcruxes?" Harry nearly shouted as his teeth chattered.

 _Of course not. However...I used his house elf, Kreacher, to test the defences I put in place to protect the locket. I left it there to die._

Harry's eyes widened. "B-but then...why...how...?"

There was a moment of silence, before Harry felt Tom's annoyance seeping through his head. _Of course. No one, not even the headmaster, can apparate in and out of Hogwarts, but the house elves do it all the time – they must be able to apparate through anti-apparition wards. I cannot believe that this never occurred to me. I cannot..._

Harry chose to say nothing about that.

 _It must have escaped, and told its master._

"Then...the - the real horcrux...it's gone? D-destroyed?"

There was another pause.

 _Perhaps not. It's likely that Regulus Black died in the cave. He disappeared in 1979...I can only assume this is the reason._

"Th-then w-what happen to the locket?"

 _The elf...perhaps it escaped again...with the locket. And if that is the case, it is almost certain that it is still in its possession. Evidently, house elves are resourceful creatures, but the likelihood one could destroy a horcrux is negligible._

Harry calmed his breathing. "Then we j-just need to find the elf...right? We just need to find someone with the last name B-black...maybe I can convince them to sell me their house elf...Dobby could use a friend...I guess..."

 _That may prove difficult, considering that the current owner of the elf is locked away in Azkaban._

Harry groaned, coughing a bit as he did. "Then what do we do? We can't summon the house elf without its master!"

There was another pause.

 _Its current owner, Sirius Black, is in Azkaban...but he is innocent of the crimes he has been accused of._

Harry blinked. "What c-crimes was he accused of?"

 _Betraying the location of your parents to me, among other insignificant charges._

"But that was -"

 _Peter Pettigrew. Yes._

"I don't get it though...wouldn't that fact have...turned up in the trial?"

 _Do you recall, Harry, our first trip to Diagon Alley?_

"Um...yes." How could he forget?

 _Then you will recall our trip to the Daily Prophet. Tell me, did you find any record of Sirius Black's trial?_

Harry gaped. "Y-you mean...he...didn't get a trial?"

 _There was a story in the Daily Prophet about his arrest and imprisonment, but since you found no record of a trial, we can only assume that this is the case._

"So...we need to...get Sirius Black a trial."

 _Indeed._

"But how?"

 _Lucius Malfoy might be of some use..._

"So...I write Draco?"

 _Not yet...we must find a subtle way to put these events in motion – you must perpetuate the fiction that you know nothing of the circumstances of your parents' death. I will think on it._

Harry sighed. Just when he thought his work was done. But it was never that easy.

But maybe, he could not help but think, he actually preferred it that way.

* * *

Ok, that was a _long_ chapter. What did you think? Make up for the short one last week?

Anyway, if you liked it, leave me a review!


	42. Hermione Granger (Part 2)

**Disclaimer:**

 **AN1:** I apologize that I missed a week, but I had a lot going on - there were two major things. One is that I nearly cut part of my finger off with a metal can. Seriously, it cut right down to the bone and bled for 4 hours. So it's been kind of hard to type at a reasonable speed.

The second thing - and I'm going to be really sincere with you - I've been dealing with some psychological trauma. I think I've known for a while that these issues have made me an incomplete person (which really comes out in my writing I think), but I've decided that I need to change, _now,_ which is going to take a lot of hard work on my part. I'm saying this partially to vent, but partially because this might mean my posting might get a bit more inconsistent. For instance, I'm running away to Germany in a couple of weeks for a short respite from life, and might not post for 2-3 weeks. I don't imagine I'll ever go more than 2-3 weeks without posting, but I wanted to let you guys know that that might be happening, and it's not because I don't appreciate you all.

 **AN2:** A side note – there will be no time turners in my fic. They just have too much potential to mess up the plot. Instead, Professor McGonagall did some tweaking of the class schedules so that Hermione could successfully geek out to her heart's content. Just thought I'd get that out of the way.

 **AN3:** An FYI - I've done a lot of thinking, and I think I'm going to split up my story into two 'books'. Harry Potter and the Accidental Horcrux is going to continue to the end of Harry's 3rd year at Hogwarts, and a sequel is going to pick up the rest. That way I can keep this story 'T' and the next one will be 'M'. So yeah...just wanted to keep you guys up to date.

* * *

 **Chapter 42: Hermione Granger (Part 2)**

Hermione Granger was thirteen – almost fourteen – years old, and unlike so many other children of that angst-ridden age, she loved her life. She truly did. She had two parents who loved and supported her unconditionally, loyal friends whom she believed cared for her with complete sincerity, a sharp mind, and a natural sort of curiosity that allowed her to enjoy the world to the fullest. But that was not all Hermione had – she had magic.

When she was a small child, strange things would happen around her – lights would flicker when she was angry, clothing changed colour when her mother bought her items in that garish shade of pink she was so fond of – and for the longest time, she made a point of explaining it away, coming up with what she felt were 'reasonable', 'perfectly logical' explanations for these unnatural occurrences. It was not until two years ago, however, that she learned the truth – she was a witch, and she had been invited to learn magic at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Hogwarts...it was any child's dream come true – an enchanted castle, as massive and imposing as it was fanciful and whimsical, filled with moving staircases and talking paintings and ghosts, and hundreds of other young witches and wizards, all bright-eyed and eager to further their education in the magical arts. Well, maybe she was projecting _a little –_ Ron never seemed particularly eager further his education – but everyone seemed genuinely pleased to be there. And why wouldn't they? They were being taught _magic spells_ in an _enchanted castle_ by some of the most talented witches and wizards in the world.

Really, though, that was a gross oversimplification – magic wasn't just a few incantations or a spellbook or two; it was a vast and complex web of ideas and techniques, the age old study of harnessing forces beyond the average human being. At Hogwarts she would learn to summon water and fire, to render someone unconscious with a word, to brew potions that could transform her into an exact genetic copy of another person or send someone into an endless, unwakable rest. The possibilities were nigh endless.

There was so much to learn and discover, so much knowledge and creativity and potential to revel in. Magic – some universal, all powerful force that some lucky humans could access to use and better their lives. A concrete positive force in the universe. But it did not take long for her to realize that her initial impression of the magical world was, quite frankly, deficient, and blatantly flawed.

Theorem: Where there is light, there is darkness.

Dark magic – the ugly shadow of humanity cast by the brilliant, luminous glory of magic. Magic could be used for harm just as easily as it could be used for good. At first, she was determined to stay away from this taboo form of magic that her teachers and classmates warned her against, somewhat cowed by its ominous name, which bore all sorts of negative connotations in the context of muggle culture.

But then things happened. People got hurt. People that could have been saved by dark magic. And people who deserved to have dark magic cast on them got off relatively unharmed.

Immediately her mind wandered back to the self-defence lessons her dad made her take. Punches and kicks – they had no other purpose than to harm people...just like dark magic. And yet, she readily accepted that self-defence was a justified set of skills to learn. Even responsible. It was then that she realized – she was being a hypocrite, and entirely unreasonable. And Hermione was not an unreasonable person. She now understood – the truth of the matter was that there was so much more than what her teachers and the Hogwarts library could teach her. There was more to magic than what she could learn in a book or a classroom.

And thus her explorations into magic had taken own an – ahem – darker tone.

But dark magic was not the only aspect of the magical world that shattered her original impressions. Upon entering the wizarding world, not only was she exposed to a plethora of subjects – transfiguration, charms, potions – that she'd had no idea even existed, she was given a home in an entirely new society, a group of people with thousands of years of culture and traditions built upon the wonders of magic. They had their own education and healthcare systems, information network, and government – the wizarding world really was like a hidden universe, a secret world woven into the much more mundane, believable one she had been raised in. But like her own world, the wizarding world was deeply, deeply flawed.

At first, it had seemed perfect. After all, these people had _magic_ – what more could they need? Sure enough, the wizarding world was free of the history of famine, slavery, racism, and colonialism that plagued the muggle world. Except it was not.

Sure, famine was not an issue, but slavery was still acceptable, for instance. A reliable source had informed her that it was not, in fact slavery, and that House Elves were given free room and board for their services, and that they quite enjoyed the tasks they were given, but she knew for a _fact_ that a lot of them were horribly mistreated. Said source might treat his Elf with respect and care, but many others did not share the sentiment.

But the cruelty of witches and wizards wasn't only directed at House Elves.

 _Mudblood._ It was a racial slur, and it had been directed toward her. Hermione was no stranger to rejection – she had never been popular; she had always been the 'nerd', the 'geek', the 'bookworm'. But never before had she been shunned by something she could not help; never had she been looked down upon because of who her parents were, where she'd come from – _what_ she was. There were witches and wizards who saw her as a lesser being, as filthy, as subhuman, because of her blood. And it was complicated – arguably far more complex an issue than racism in the muggle world.

Salazar Slytherin was thought of as the champion of blood purity, arguably its source, but as above reliable source had informed her, there was no historical evidence that he actually believed that 'blood' was actually the real issue. It was security. Muggleborns constituted a serious threat to the security of the magical world – but so did any witch or wizard living with muggles. The prejudice against muggleborns, therefore, was completely unfounded.

So, as it turned out, the wizarding world had a dark side, as did magic itself. It was so much more complex, diverse than she had originally thought. Magic was not merely a force or an ability, it was an intention, a decision, a moral dilemma, and a way of life. It was light and dark and beautiful and ugly. It had darkness looming underneath, so close to the surface – but still she chose to believe that magic was a genuinely wonderful thing, which made the world a better place.

 _Like Harry._

Harry Potter and magic – the concepts were inseparable in her mind.

Harry was truly the best friend she'd ever had; he was brave, admirable, smart, creative, kind, and eager to help people. They shared many interests and ambitions – namely, to be the best at, well, everything – and she truly believed that he cared about her. He was certainly interested in everything she had to say. Honestly, if someone asked, she would have nothing but good things to say about him.

But sometimes, part of her thought that might be a lie of omission.

Because Harry was not perfect. But who was?

Harry had a temper. He was very good at hiding it (most of the time), but she was now sure it was there. More significantly, however, she had come to realize that he was actually quite a violent person, which was more than a little troubling considering his temper. In first year, Draco Malfoy had insulted Harry's mother, and in response, he snapped Malfoy's leg. At first, she thought it was a freak accident – a one off thing...after all, he fixed Malfoy's leg and apologized profusely. But then there was the 'mudblood' incident. Last October Malfoy had seen fit to call her a nasty name, and Harry had been furious. Really, she'd never seen someone so angry – it was actually a terrifying sight. He hadn't blown up, or shouted, or thrown spells or punches. No, he was just...cold...on the outside, at least. In his eyes, she'd seen a fire, a hatred directed at Malfoy that promised retribution. She begged him not to do anything, but he'd gone and petrified and threatened the other boy, and she could tell that he didn't think he'd done anything wrong, and wouldn't have felt bad about doing much worse.

What did that say about him? Well, he cared deeply about his friends and believed that she was owed respect.

Then came the duelling club incident – Malfoy nearly exposed the fact that Harry was a parselmouth, leaving Harry very displeased. Again, she'd seen that look on his face – that cold look which barely contained the anger burning inside. The next morning Malfoy and the other Slytherin boys from Harry's dorm came to breakfast looking abnormally contrite and cowed, and she knew that again, Harry had done something.

But he was feeling threatened, so perhaps that was excusable as well.

Now, it might seem that all of Harry's violent outbursts occurred around Malfoy. So maybe it really was just a one off thing – maybe Malfoy just rubbed him the wrong way, and that was the extent of it. But then she remembered the troll incident, in which Harry had killed a troll without hesitation, beheading it with a simple spell. Coming to Hogwarts as a second year and watching the first years, full of innocence and wonder, being sorted and going to their first classes, it struck her just how abnormal Harry's behaviour had been. She couldn't even imagine Colin Creevy beheading anything, and she had realized that the idea of an eleven-year-old decapitating a sentient creature without a second thought or a single regret was unfathomable. So no, it wasn't just Malfoy, not really.

Of course, Harry displayed other strange behaviours – like his morbid fascination with nasty dark curses. At this point, there was no doubt in her mind that there was something...odd going on in Harry Potter's head that she didn't understand – that no one could understand – something dark. And yet, she found that she wasn't afraid of him. Not one bit.

...but there was also the racism; Harry was very prejudiced against muggles. Sure, he was smart enough not to advertise it – unlike Malfoy – but it was there, quite obvious to anyone who knew him well...not that there were many people who fit that description; while Harry was friendly to nearly everyone, he was rather...closed off, but justifiably so. Anyway, yes, Harry was most definitely rather racist...but the root of his mistaken beliefs were trauma and abuse, and the prejudice that had been often directed at him, his whole life. It was a belief that was acquired through events that should not have happened – and if Harry came to realize this, perhaps he would rethink his views. In fact, she was sure he would. Harry was a very reasonable person – she was sure that if he worked through the psychological issues he had, he would change, for the better.

Because he was such a good person on the inside; there may have been darkness in him, but there was light too. So much light. It wasn't Harry's fault that he was desensitized to violence, just like it really wasn't his fault he was prejudiced against muggles; it wasn't his fault life had dealt him a terrible hand. He grew up alone, hated, and uncared for, and instead of coming a cruel, evil person, he stifled his anger and cruelty with compassion and goodness. Harry was a genuinely good person and a wonderful friend – she had never been more convinced of something in her life.

He had overcome so much, and was continuing to make progress; in fact, he was currently on his way to have dinner with her and her _muggle_ parents.

And that was when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it!" she heard her dad shout from where he was vacuuming in the living room.

She smiled to herself. This was it – this was her chance to help her best friend overcome one of his faults.

"Harry, right? It's good to finally meet you," she heard her dad say.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Granger," Harry replied in a polite tone.

"Follow me – Hermione and Jean are just setting the table now."

A few seconds later, Harry and her dad emerged from the doorway and she immediately threw her arms around him in a tight hug, which it took a moment for him to return.

"I'm so glad you could make it!"

She let go of him, revealing the brilliant smile on her face – but it almost slipped right off when she saw him. He was ashen in the face and even thinner than she remembered him being, and she could see his hand twitching in the pocket of his black jeans, concealed only slightly by the grey button-up he was wearing.

He didn't look _sick_...actually, he looked a little like her Uncle Benjamin looked like when he was coming off of morphine after his back surgery.

But surely Harry hadn't been doing drugs, right? No, definitely not. He was only thirteen, and way too smart to do something like that. He was probably just tired. Obviously the Dursleys weren't treating him right. Should she say something? Should she do something? Harry said he was doing well in his last letter, and not to worry about him, but...

"It's good to see you too, Hermione."

She straightened out the smile on her face and pointed to her mum. "This is my mum!"

Harry held out his hand to his mum, who was standing on her right. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Granger."

She smiled as she took his hand. "My, Hermione was right – what a polite boy. Please, come sit down – I hope you like spaghetti."

"I do, ma'am."

Hermione grinned. So far, so good.

"So," her dad said as they sat down, "You go to Hogwarts as well?"

"Hermione and I are in the same year," Harry said politely, flexing his hand before he picked up his fork.

"But you're not in the same...House?" her mum asked.

Harry shook his head. "No, I'm in Slytherin."

Her mum smiled at him, completely oblivious to the connotation. She had never gotten around to explaining blood status and wizarding prejudices to her parents. "And how do you find that?"

"Oh, it's...good."

"Hermione tells us that there's some animosity between...Gryffindor and Slytherin?" her dad said curiously.

"Yes..." Harry paused, "In fact, I think our friend Theo and I might be the only Slytherins to have friends in Gryffindor."

That was definitely true. She never ceased to be thankful that her friends remained loyal to her despite the fact that she was a muggleborn and a Gryffindor.

"Yes, Hermione told us that you three hold an extracurricular study club together," her mum commented with a smile.

Harry spared a sidelong glance at Hermione, his eyebrows raised.

"I told them how we practice more advanced spells, and duelling...all while taking proper precautions, of course," she put in reassuringly. She couldn't have told them that they were practising the dark arts...not that her parents would really know what that meant.

Harry nodded slowly. "We started it in first year."

"Harry knew some spell spells I was interested in learning, and we just kept meeting up after that," Hermione went on, hoping Harry would catch on to the story she'd told her parents.

Meanwhile, her dad was nodding. "Hermione told us you know a lot of these...spells."

"Well, I do a lot of reading."

"And he's brilliant," she interjected, "Harry knows more spells than lots of fifth years."

Her parents chuckled, and Harry grimaced.

"Hermione's exaggerating -" Harry began stiffly.

"I'm not," she interrupted, "I've talked to the older students, and half of them don't know half as much as you. You're just too modest." She huffed, sparing him a bit of a smirk. It was a bit fun, embarrassing Harry. Oh dear...now she felt like Theo.

Her mum and dad looked very amused.

The dinner table fell silent for a couple of minutes, before her mum looked up at Harry.

"So Harry, what are your plans for after Hogwarts?"

"Umm..." Harry seemed very surprised by the question. "Teaching or politics, I think."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Teaching or politics? She supposed that made sense. Harry was always eager to help people.

"Hermione has told us that after Hogwarts, you'll have the opportunity to complete a two-year Mastery in a subject of your choice. She told us she's interested in...um..."

"Charms and Runes," she offered. She hadn't actually taken Ancient Runes yet, but she'd read the first two years of textbooks, and she was pretty sure she was in love.

"Ah, yes...are you planning on doing the same, Harry?"

Harry frowned in thought. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'd like to do at least one Mastery...I think I'd start with Transfiguration or Arithmancy."

That sounded just about right.

"Transfiguration," her dad began, looking a bit excited, "That's transforming one thing into another, yes?"

Harry nodded, looking at her dad warily. "Roughly."

"I'm very curious about this," Mr. Granger continued, and Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. Her dad had been shocked when he heard what she had to say about transfiguration after her first year. She didn't know enough of the theory to answer his questions though; unlike Harry, she hadn't really done much reading ahead on it outside of their animagus research (Professor McGonagall already assigned massive amounts of class readings...which most of the students didn't bother with).

"Hermione has told us some very unexpected things about transfiguration – about how the weight and volume of an object can change, even though it's not only an illusion."

Harry's eyes brightened at that, and Hermione stifled a grin. Hopefully that would loosen him up. Things seemed to be going well, but the atmosphere at the table was still decidedly tense.

"Yes, it's actually very interesting. One would expect that objects could only be transfigured into objects of the same mass, but there's actually a lot more to it than that. It's easiest to transfigure, for instance, a bowl into a similarly-sized plate, but I could also transfigure it into a piano, it would just take much more magic to do that."

She nodded along.

"But where does the extra mass actually come from?" her dad asked with a frown.

"Well, that's not entirely clear to me, to be honest -"

Good, so even Harry was confused about that.

\- there's a lot written about it, of course, but it's all very technical. From what I can tell, though, it's similar to the conversion of energy into mass according to Einstein's E = mc^2 formula."

 _Oh._

Meanwhile, her dad's eyes flickered in recognition. "And I suppose your magic would be the energy?"

"Exactly."

"Brilliant!"

"He's been puzzling over this for quite a while," her mum explained, a wry smile on her face. "I suppose you enjoy transfiguration, then? I can see it in your eyes," her mum commented, smile softening. "Hermione says it's a very difficult class."

"Oh, it is, but it's my favourite. We start Arithmancy and Ancient Runes this year, though, so that might change," Harry elaborated, clearly starting to feel more at ease.

"Oh, yes, she mentioned - you get to choose electives this year."

Harry nodded, glancing at Hermione. "I'm assuming you'll be taking Runes and Arithmancy with me?"

She nodded avidly. "And Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, and Muggle Studies."

Harry's eyes widened comically. "You're taking _Divination_?"

 _That's_ what he picked up on? She thought he'd immediately have something to say about her decision to take Muggle Studies.

"Yes," she said with a frown.

"But...but...it's...it's...nonsense, Hermione. No one knows the future. Not really."

Her dad was nodding with him, having expressed a similar opinion a few weeks earlier.

She shrugged. "Perhaps, but I'm still curious."

Honestly, Harry could be a bit closed minded sometimes. Who knows? Maybe Divination would turn out to be very informative.

"Fine, but what about Muggle Studies – you grew up with muggles."

Ah, there it was. No one else would have noticed, but she once again observed the brief pause in his speech right before he said the word _muggle_ , which she had come to realize indicated the dislike the felt for them. She also took note of how his eyes darted, nearly imperceptibly, between her parents, obviously conscious of the slight derision that was sometimes evident in his voice when he said the term. At least he was actively trying to avoid offending her parents. That was something, at least.

Honestly, Harry and Theo were lucky that she cared about them so much – she'd never put up with their ridiculous prejudices otherwise. Well, Harry's wasn't ridiculous. Theo's was.

She smiled at him. "I think it will be fascinating to study them from the wizarding point of view."

"We've always encouraged Hermione to be curious about others' perspectives," her dad said proudly.

Harry nodded slowly, clearly still not convinced.

"You live with...muggles as well, Harry, correct?" her dad asked.

Oh no...oh no...not good.

She watched as Harry did his very best not to grimace. "Yes."

His voice was neutral. Good for you, Harry.

"How did they react to your Hogwarts letter?"

She could not help but wince at that.

Harry, however, kept up the appearance of being unfazed, much to her relief. "Well, my mum was a witch, and my dad was a wizard, so my muggle family already knew beforehand."

Her parents nodded, and she stifled a sigh of relief.

"I know we were shocked," Mrs. Granger said with a smile.

"Did it...upset you at all?" Harry asked delicately.

Good, she was hoping he'd ask something like that.

"Oh no," her dad replied, "We always knew our Hermione was special – it just turns out that she was more special than we thought!"

Hermione blushed.

Harry blinked. "I suppose...that's one way to see it."

"We're so proud of her," her mum said, "We wish, of course, that we understood more, and that we could experience magic along with Hermione...but we're so glad that she's had the opportunity to find a place where she feels comfortable and challenged."

Hermione watched Harry intently as his knuckles whitened while he gripped his fork tightly. Something dark flickered across his face – but it wasn't anger or disdain. Actually, it looked a lot like...jealousy.

"Harry? Are you alright?" her mum asked, her voice concerned.

"Yeah, I'm just..." Harry's voice sounded hollow in her ears. "Hermione's very lucky to have you."

Her parents beamed at him.

Crisis averted.

* * *

"So, how was it?" she asked as she led Harry downstairs.

"You were there, Hermione," Harry pointed out.

She rolled her eyes. "How did you find it?"

Harry paused. "It was...nice. Your parents are...very good muggles."

'Very good muggles' – god, he made it sound like they were animals or aliens or something. Oh well, they'd made progress, so she just beamed at him. "They're lovely, aren't they?"

"Yeah, seems like it."

"So muggles aren't so bad, are they, Harry?" she questioned pointedly.

Harry frowned at her. "They're only two muggles, Hermione," he said uneasily.

"But there are lots of other muggles just as nice as them."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

She sighed, and ushered him toward the sofa.

"So," she began, "Mum and dad said that if you want, you can sleep here tonight, down here on this sofa. Maybe we can call the Dursleys and tell them they don't have to pick you up? What time are they coming?"

Harry shook his head. "They aren't. I just recently realized that I could have been taking cabs places all this time."

"You took a cab? From Little Whinging? That must have cost so much!" she exclaimed, half reproachingly.

Harry only shrugged, though. "It turns out my parents left me a lot of money. It's really not a problem."

Hermione sighed again. "Well, how long before your absence is noticed?"

"Well, I can probably get away with it until tomorrow, so I should probably leave by tomorrow evening."

She grinned. "Excellent! We have time to compare homework then!"

He smiled...but a moment later it morphed into a frown. "Can I ask you a question?"

Her eyebrows rose, intrigued. "Of course."

"It's about this scenario that I was thinking of."

She chuckled. "Don't tell me it's the Trolley Problem."

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, the answer to that one is obvious."

"No, it isn't!"

"Yeah, it is."

"Fine, then what's the answer?" she retorted, knowing already what he would probably say.

"You pull the lever and kill the man."

"Would you really murder someone to save a handful of other people?"

His face suddenly grew very grim, and his eyes darkened to a glassy green. "Letting someone die when...you could easily save them without doing any harm to yourself is basically the same as killing them."

"Even if I were to grant that – and that's a big if – you _would_ causing yourself harm; you'd go to jail for murder," she pointed out triumphantly.

Harry shook his head though, expression suddenly cleared. "Only if there were witnesses. And I'd just say I didn't see the man on the other tracks, and pulled the lever to redirect the train on instinct."

"You'd lie in court?" she exclaimed, outraged.

"Yes," he said, as though it was obvious.

She sighed. "I should have seen that coming, I suppose. Slimy Slytherin."

He smirked a bit. "Yes, you should have. What's your answer?"

She grimaced. "I'm still working on it."

"Fair enough." All expression was suddenly removed from his face. "Maybe you'll have an answer to my question."

She nodded eagerly. "What is it?"

He hesitated. "Alright, so, say someone does something bad -"

"How bad?"

"Like...murder. Say they murdered someone...but they didn't have a choice. There wasn't any other reasonable option."

"Like in self defence?"

"Maybe," he said vaguely, "So this person does this bad thing, but they feel awful about it afterward. So awful they can't think straight, and feel like they can't move on with it. What do they do?"

Harry looked physically pained by the question.

She frowned. Was Harry admitting to _murder?_ Surely not, she told herself. Surely not – ah! Of course! Harry was talking about killing Voldemort! He was concerned that he would have to do it himself, and wouldn't be able to deal with the guilt.

"Well," she began slowly, "If they really didn't have a choice, then they didn't _really_ do anything wrong, did they?" She tried to look reassuring.

He frowned. "You really think so?"

She nodded, perhaps a bit too quickly. "If you think about it, it makes sense. How can you blame someone for an action when they had to act but couldn't act in any other way?"

He nodded slowly. "But say they knew that, and it didn't help. What if they still felt so bad they couldn't do their job properly?"

She paused, not really knowing what job he was talking about. Oh well, it probably was just an example. "Well, they could go to counselling -"

"But they couldn't tell anyone what they did," he interrupted with a slight wince.

"They wouldn't have to; they could just say they did something wrong, and feel a lot of guilt because of it."

"And...if they didn't want to do that? What if they wanted to fix it alone?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, If they still feel bad, they probably haven't properly convinced themselves that they shouldn't be blamed for what they did."

"But how do they do that?"

"I suppose that every time they'd start to feel bad, they could just tell themselves right away, 'it wasn't my fault'."

"But what if they're really caught up in their feelings, and can't remember to do that?"

She frowned. "I suppose they could make themselves a physical reminder. I heard some people tie a string around their fingers to help them remember things."

He looked very thoughtful. "Yeah, alright. That seems like a good answer."

She smiled, again trying to look reassuring.

"Well," he said abruptly, "What should we talk about now?"

Her eyebrows rose at the obvious attempt to change the subject, but decided to do nothing about it. "We could talk about House Elf rights."

He sighed. "I told you, it's not about rights, it's about -"

"Culture, I know." She paused. "We could watch a movie too."

"A movie?"

She rose to her feet strode over to a cabinet beside the television. "What kinds of movies do you like?"

Harry shrugged. "Never seen any."

Her eyes went wide. "You've never seen a movie?"

"I get in trouble if I'm caught watching the telly," Harry said by way of explanation.

She huffed. "Stupid Dursleys. Alright. Let's watch Star Wars, then."

As it turned out, _Star Wars: A New Hope_ was a good choice; at the very least, it seemed to hold Harry's attention. Although, Harry was clearly oblivious to any movie watching etiquette, and was asking questions and offering commentary almost incessantly throughout.

"Why are they rebelling against the Empire?"

"Why does she do her hair like that? It looks really impractical."

"They're robots, what fool thought it would be useful to give them emotions? It's clearly causing them to hesitate, which is inefficient."

"Why does he wear that mask?"

"That would be horrible. The whole planet is a desert. Can you imagine?"

"How _do_ the spaceships work? They can't work like rockets, so how do they propel themselves through the space?"

"You shouldn't be able to hear things in space."

"The Force? Is that basically magic?"

"How is it that Luke had magic all this time, but didn't know? What about accidental magic! Ah, maybe it's more like a mutant power. But still."

"Wait, so this old man knew Luke's father, but never thought to, I don't know, introduce himself to his friend's son? They're neighbours!"

"Wow! They blew up a planet! That's brilliant!"

"Is a lightsabre some kind of magical object that emits a sustained cutting charm or something? That sort of ruins my mutant theory. Why are they different colours if it's the same spell? Or is it a laser? But that still doesn't explain the colours."

"I feel a bit disappointed that we don't get to see Obi-Wan get sliced in half. The details, that is."

As the movie continued, his comments began to die away, and she could feel him starting to slump against her shoulder, while she began to do the same.

By the time the movie ended, she and Harry were starting to fall asleep on each other's shoulders, and it took her a minute to convince herself to stand up and fetch the video from the VCR.

As she pulled it out, she blinked blearily at the television, which had skipped to the news channel. A woman in a tight skirt was currently talking about the weather. She absently noted that from the neck down the woman wasn't so bad looking, but her makeup was absolutely garish; she had blue eyeshadow on her eyes and red lipstick on her lips, and it didn't look good at all. Honestly, she didn't understand why women did that.

She was so caught up in her musings that she started when, a moment later, the channel changed, and the visage of a bedraggled man with a mad glint in his eye took the place of the map of London.

" _We interrupt our regular program to make the following announcement – mass murderer Sirius Black has recently escaped a local high security facility and..."_

She heard a sharp intake of breath, and she turned around to see Harry staring at the television screen with wide eyes, a look of horror written over his face.

"Harry?" she asked confusedly, "Do you know that person?"

A dark look passed over his face. "No," he said decidedly, "It's nothing."

She looked at him reproachingly.

"It's fine, Hermione, really."

"If you say so."

And she left it at that.

* * *

Off to Hogwarts next chapter!


	43. Welcome to the Club

**Disclaimer:** Same as last week.

 **AN** : I want to say, thanks everyone, for understanding my situation and being patient. I appreciate all of you so, so much, and it makes me so happy to read the reviews you leave. So, thanks for reading, and see you all in a few weeks :)

* * *

 **Chapter 43: Welcome to the Club**

"Theo? Granger? What are you doing here?"

Draco Malfoy had just stepped into Harry, Theo, and Hermione's compartment, and was looking very puzzled to see the other two there.

In his last letter to Draco, Harry had given the other boy instructions to meet him alone in his compartment on the Hogwarts express, and bring along the potion he had asked him to brew. Apparently, he had forgotten to mention that even though Draco had to come alone, Harry didn't.

"That will be explained in a moment," Harry replied vaguely. "Do you have the potion?"

Draco frowned and reached into his bag, pulling out three large vials.

Immediately, Hermione went to inspect them.

"Well?" Harry said after a moment, eyebrow raised.

Hermione nodded. "It looks correct. I take it you did a litmus test?" she asked Draco.

He nodded slowly, warily. "The acidity was right on the mark."

"Excellent!" Hermione snatched the potions out of his hand and cast a glass-enforcing charm on them before dropping them into her bag.

Meanwhile, Draco scowled at her indignantly. "You can't just -"

"She can," Harry interjected with a note of finality in his voice.

There was an awkward pause.

Draco cleared his throat. "So..." he began uneasily, glancing again at Hermione and Theo, who were staring at him with blank faces.

"Why don't you sit down? Oh, and please lock the door behind you," Harry suggested.

Draco shifted uncomfortably, slowly reaching behind him to lock the door before he sat down with no small measure of reluctance.

Harry nodded reassuringly. "So how was your summer holiday?" he asked pleasantly.

Draco looked at him, a little incredulous. "Quite...enjoyable."

"Well that's wonderful, did you travel at all?"

Hermione cleared her throat.

Harry sighed, glancing at her sheepishly, before looking at Draco with a serious expression. "I'd like to test your occlumency shields, if you'll allow it."

Draco's eyes went wide. "You're a legillimens?" he blurted out.

"Well, I can't do it wandlessly, but yes," Harry said, pausing, "I won't actually invade your thoughts – I'll just test your shields...it's not at all an invasive process."

Draco glanced at Hermione and Theo, clearly unnerved.

"He's already tested us," Theo said dismissively, "Just forget that we're here."

Draco hesitated. "Fine. Do it."

Harry nodded. "Alright."

Drawing his wand, he pointed it straight at Draco's face, before freezing. This would be the first time he'd performed legillimency since...Lockhart. Since he broke someone's mind, and sloppily covered up the damage with a haphazard _obliviate._ This would be the first time. Oh god...what if he pushed to hard? What if he hurt Draco? What if -

What if he killed him?

He'd done it before, he could do it again.

He was a murderer.

Murderer.

He took a deep breath. _It's not your fault_ , he told himself, _It's not your fault._

"Are you finished?" Draco said impatiently.

Harry started. "No, I, um...was just distracted. Sorry. I'll do it now."

When he received no objection, he said lowly, _"Legillimens."_

A moment later, he found himself in a dimly lit small room, no doors or windows in sight. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all built of the same white and black marble, identical to the stone from which Malfoy Manor was constructed. With an extreme level of caution, he poked the wall, and feeling cold stone under his fingers, he began to tap it ever so lightly. When it remained stable, he hesitated, and took a deep breath before he began to knock on the wall. It gave a little, under the weight of his fist, and the room shuddered, causing him to panic for a moment...but in the end, it remained in tact.

Shakily satisfied, Harry released Draco's mind from his consciousness, slowly and carefully.

"Well?" Draco said impatiently.

"It's fine."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Fine?"

Harry pursed his lips. "You need to keep practising, but it's pretty stable. It doesn't have to be perfect." Because it didn't. As long as his friends could prevent a legillimens from scanning their surface thoughts, they were in the clear. He doubted that Professor Snape or the Headmaster would dare to tear through their students' occlumency shields, possibly causing permanent damage due to the force required to do so.

 _And if his mind breaks, that's one less problem for us to deal with_ , Tom said dismissively.

Harry paled a few shades, hearing Tom's words.

Meanwhile, feeling satisfied, Draco allowed himself a small smirk.

"Now," Harry began, "I told you last year that I would tell you more about the Chamber of Secrets, and teach you some spells as well...if you brewed that potion and learned occlumency. Seeing as you did both, we'd like to make you an offer."

He glanced at Hermione and Theo, who subtly nodded at him.

Meanwhile, Draco frowned. "What kind of offer?"

"A year and a half ago, Theo, Hermione, and I started a study club, so that we could practise duelling and occlumency," Harry explained, "But after what happened with the Philosopher's Stone, we...well we took things a little further."

Draco's frown grew deeper, taking on a slightly suspicious tone. "How d'you mean?"

"Well, do you remember when I told you about the cover story Professor Dumbledore employed?"

"Yes..." Draco said slowly.

"Well, part of that cover story is the fact that everyone thinks the Stone was brought to Hogwarts to be protected. This isn't the case."

"Well why was it there in the first place?"

"Bait."

"Bait?" Draco asked incredulously.

Harry nodded. "Dumbledore figured that with both me and the Stone at Hogwarts, Lord Voldemort wouldn't be able to resist making his presence known."

 _It's almost pathetic how predictable my master soul has become. We must never fall prey to the same flaw, Harry._

Draco's eyes were wide. "But then...you were bait too?"

Harry nodded, pleased that Draco caught on immediately. "Exactly. The Headmaster had of course intended to protect me, but I made that a little difficult when I approached Professor Quirrell on my own. But that's not the point. The point was that I was in danger, and I had no way to protect myself. So we – Hermione, Theo, and I – decided that we couldn't let that happen again, and so we...changed the direction of our study club. And part of this new direction is learning the Dark Arts."

Draco was gaping now, eyes flitting between Harry, Hermione, and Theo, who all had very calm, matter-of-fact expressions on their faces. "But...but...Granger's a _Gryffindor_..."

Hermione scowled at him. "Which is why I'm brave enough to break the rules and learn dangerous magic in order to protect my friends," she snapped.

Properly chastised, Draco shut his mouth.

"Anyway," Harry said, "The three of us have created a group dedicated to experimenting with advanced magic, duelling, and learning the Dark Arts...and we're offering you a spot. If you were to join, you wouldn't be able to tell anyone, and you would have to help us keep it a secret – the foundation of our group is our resolution to keep each other's secrets, so that's fundamental. Do you understand?"

Draco nodded mutely.

"Then one thing remains," Harry announced, "Would you like to join? I'm afraid we can't allow you any time to think about it. This is a one time offer."

Draco's face was unreservedly portraying pure surprise now, mingled with a strong dose of eagerness. He shook his head. "Of course I want to join! It sounds _incredible_." He was so excited that his voice had risen at least half an octave, and his eyes were wide like a child's on Christmas morning.

Harry grinned at him. "Excellent. Then you have to make a pledge to us, all of us – _I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine_."

Draco nodded eagerly.

"You have to say it."

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine," Draco agreed easily.

Harry smiled brilliantly, holding out his hand. "Then welcome, Draco, to the Order of the Midnight Sun."

Draco shook his hand slowly, looking a bit bemused. "The midnight sun?"

"It's a phenomena seen in the far north – once a year, the sun never sets, and remains in the sky all night – the midnight sun. It means victory over darkness," Hermione explained.

Draco nodded, still looking a little puzzled. "Well, it sounds good at least."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Now," Harry said, holding out his right hand, "I'd like to call a meeting of the Order of the Midnight Sun."

Theo and Hermione immediately held out their hands, and Draco reluctantly followed suit.

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine," they all said at once.

 _How touching._

"Brilliant!" Harry concluded. "Now, I think we should talk about plans for the year."

"Well," Hermione started, not wasting any time as she pulled her notebook and quill out of her bag, "We can continue our animagus training now."

"Animagus training?" Draco asked.

"We're training to become animagi," Theo informed him, "That's what the potion is for."

"We can help you get started on it as well," Harry offered.

Draco grimaced. "I've heard it can be really dangerous. I think I'll wait until I'm better at transfiguration...if it's alright with you."

 _Smart boy. You could learn from him._

Harry nodded. "We can just work on improving your occlumency shields, then."

The other boy's eyes lit up, obviously pleased at the prospect. "I'd like that."

"So we'll meet every Sunday morning for that," Hermione said, scratching down a few notes. "Anything else we should plan for Sunday mornings?"

"Actually yes," Harry said, "I was thinking, since we're all taking Ancient Runes this year, we can experiment with warding."

Hermione let out a high-pitched squeal. "Oh yes! Brilliant! Oh, we simply _must."_

Theo shrugged. "Sounds useful. I'm in. You, Draco?"

"Um, yeah, sure."

"Oh, and Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, "You said something about spell-crafting! You've been working on something, right?"

Harry blushed. "Something small. It's not finished yet."

Theo and Draco's eyes were wide. "You've already began making your own spells?"

"I haven't actually gotten the chance to try it yet," Harry said quickly, "But I'll teach it to you, once I manage to get it right. Then...well, we can go through the process together."

Hermione grinned. "Oh, splendid! When do you suppose that might be?"

"Um, I hope I'll have something finished by December...but it's hard to say."

Hermione scribbled another not down. "Excellent. Now...Thursday nights are still duelling nights, right?"

Harry and Theo nodded.

Hermione turned to Draco. "Does that work for you too?"

Still looking a bit baffled over everything, Draco nodded cautiously. "Yes, don't believe I have any prior engagements."

Theo rolled his eyes.

"Alright...now, what spells should we learn? I know Theo and I still need to work on _exacuere, confringo, perdo digita,_ and _expulso -"_

"Come on, Hermione, we've got _expulso_ and _perdo digita_ down."

"Using curses in a duel requires _complete_ mastery," she snapped at him. "Anyway...I'm guessing Draco already knows _expelliarmus, protego,_ and _petrificus totalus,_ but we should help him learn s _tupefy, bombarda, bombarda maxima, nonstatera_ and _reducto_ as well."

Draco's eyes were wide. "You know all those curses?"

" _Bombarda_ and s _tupefy_ are charms and _nonstatera_ is a hex," Hermione corrected.

Draco's cheeks went a little red, and he scowled slightly. "Oh."

"Anyway, what new ones should we put on the list?"

Harry reached into his bag and retrieved his diary, and began flipping through the pages. " _Interfodio_ is a piercing curse," Harry commented absently, recalling his duel with Tom. " _Oppugno_ is a good one – it's a good way to practice taking advantage of your surroundings in a duel. _Glacius_ is the freezing charm, and that could be helpful. On that note, _aguamenti_ conjures water – it's a difficult spell, but very useful. _Flagrante_ could be useful to – you place it on objects so that they burn people when they touch them. And, umm...well, those should keep us busy for a while."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "How many of them do _you_ already know?"

"I can cast _aguamenti_ and _oppugno_ quite effectively. I've been working on trying to get _flagrante_ down wandlessly but I can barely do it with a wand -"

"You're trying to learn _wandless_ magic?" Draco asked incredulously.

"Harry can already do _loads_ of spells wandlessly," Theo piped up with a smirk. "Come on, Harry, show him."

Harry quirked an eyebrow.

"Oh _come on_."

Harry hesitated, but a moment later relented and held out his hand, whispering _incendio_ in his mind. A moment later a small orange flame appeared in his hand.

"Bloody hell," Draco whispered, wide silver eyes flickering in the firelight.

" _Anyway_ ," Hermione said impatiently, "What were you saying Harry?"

The flame in Harry's hand went out in a puff of smoke. "Oh – uh – just that I've been trying to learn to cast _flagrante_ wandlessly so I can use it on the Dursleys."

Theo burst out laughing at that and Hermione raised an eyebrow.

Meanwhile, Draco was confused. "Who are the Dursleys?"

Harry scowled. "The _muggles_ I live with."

"Ah."

"So -"

Suddenly, the train lurched, and a moment later, Harry felt it shudder and begin to lose velocity.

Theo frowned. "Are we there already?"

Harry glanced out the window. The rain was falling heavily, and the windows were now a solid, sullen grey. He couldn't see anything.

"I can't see outside – but I think it's still too early, isn't it?"

Hermione glanced at her watch. "We definitely can't be there yet."

Draco scowled. "Then why are we stopping?"

"How could I possibly know that?" Hermione retorted sourly.

The train was getting slower and slower, at this point; the noise of the pistons pulsed less frequently, eventually dying away, and the wind and rain sounded louder and louder as it beat against the now nearly stationary windows.

Theo, who was nearest the door, got up to look into the corridor.

"I don't see -"

All of a sudden, the train came to a complete stop with a jolt, throwing Theo back into the compartment. Distant thuds and bangs informed them that the force of halting caused luggage to fall out of the racks. Then, without warning, all the gas lamps went out and they were plunged into total darkness.

"What's going on?" Draco cried.

"Ouch!" Hermione gasped out, "Malfoy, that was my foot!"

"Sorry Granger," came Draco's resentful voice.

"You should be!"

" _Lumos._ Perhaps the train's broken down?" Harry interjected.

"I've never heard of the Hogwarts Express breaking down," Theo put in with a frown.

Suddenly, there was a metallic popping sound and a loud screech; someone had opened the train door...from the outside.

"Someone's coming aboard," Hermione whispered.

Harry's stomach lurched, and the unmistakable feeling of dread washed over him.

They were all silent, as though frozen, and Harry could see that he was not the only one overcome with dread – his friends were all sitting stiffly, perfectly still, their faces ashen.

A few moments passed, and Harry was honestly wondering if they had all imagined it - not a sound could be heard; no footsteps, no voices...but then they heard a terrifying click. The latch on their compartment door had popped open, and it opened wide, revealing what lay beyond: standing in the doorway, illuminated by the soft golden glow radiating from Harry's wand, was an imposing figure that towered to the ceiling, shrouded in a billowing, ragged black cloak. Its face was completely hidden beneath its hood.

 _No, no, no..._

Alarmed by Tom's reaction, Harry's eyes scanned the creature critically, moving downward, and what he saw made his stomach lurch again. There was a hand protruding from the cloak, and it was glistening, grayish, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water - but it was visible only for a split second. As though the creature beneath the cloak sensed Harry's gaze, the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its black cloak.

Harry opened his mouth to say something - the creature appeared to be humanoid, so perhaps they could communicate; perhaps it knew what was going on - but nothing came out, and his mouth immediately dried up, leaving a bitter, rotten taste behind.

And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it were trying to suck something thick and heavy out of the air.

An intense cold swept over them all, and Harry felt his own breath catch in his chest. The cold gripped him deeper than his skin; it was inside his quickly beating heart, as though it were burrowing deep inside to his very soul.

 _No no no no no..._

Suddenly, he was being dragged downward, as ice crawled up his veins and made him go stiff, and he was quickly made aware that something had gone very wrong; something bad, something unmistakably dreadful was about to happen.

He was going to die.

Oh god. He was dying. This is what dying feels like. He failed. He failed. He was going to die.

Static started buzzing all around him, and fear shook him to the very core. He couldn't see. He couldn't feel anything – just cold. He couldn't even hear anything, until -

 _"Not Harry! Please..."_

It was screaming; terrible, terrified, pleading screams. It was a woman. A crying woman, begging for her life. No, not her life...

Someone else's life.

Harry's life.

No, it couldn't be.

 _"Have mercy... "_

His mum...it had to be his mum...she was there...right there...he could hear her so close.

 _"Not Harry! Please — I'll do anything!"_

She was there, with him, and she knew - she knew he was about to die. She sounded so desperate, so sad, and he was suddenly overcome with a heart-wrenching, helpless urge to reassure her.

 _:It's alright...:_ he hissed softly, in the most comforting way he knew how, _:It's going to be alright. Don't worry...Don't worry...everything's going to be alright. Everthing's going to be alright... I'm coming mum...I'm coming...:_

And then everything went black.

* * *

"Harry! Harry!" It was Hermione's voice, fearful and frantic. "Wake up!"

Suddenly aware of the fact that someone was slapping his face, he blinked his eyes open. There were lanterns lit above him, and the floor was trembling – the Hogwarts Express was once again moving. For a moment he thought that the creature had been his imagination, but then he realized that he was on the floor, and his stomach felt somewhere in between 'I haven't eaten in two days' and 'Dudley punched me way too hard'. When he put his glasses back on, he could feel cold sweat drenching his face.

Above him, he could see the worried faces of Hermione, Theo and Draco, all looking quite sickly themselves – but there was one more. A bedraggled man stood behind them, in scruffy, patched robes, looking quite pale and shocked.

"I'm not...dead, am I?" Harry checked.

 _Do you feel dead, you stupid child?_

"I don't feel dead or anything, but I felt like I was dying, and it never hurts to be sure of these things," he explained, mostly to Tom, who scoffed in response.

Hermione looked like she was ready to burst into tears, while Draco just looked confused and a little disturbed. Theo was chuckling weakly.

He tried to rise to his feet, but failed.

He looked up at the unfamiliar man apologetically. "My name's Harry Potter. What's yours?"

Seemingly startled out of a daze, the man answered softly, "Remus Lupin, I'm your new Defence against the Dark Arts professor." He reached into his pocket, which was clearly deeper than it appeared, and pulled out a massive chocolate bar, and started breaking it into pieces and handing it out.

"Eat," he said, "It'll help. Now, I need to speak to the driver, exc-"

"Professor," Theo interjected, his voice cold. "Would you mind waiting a moment?"

Harry blinked. "Theo?"

"He heard you, Harry," Hermione said softly as she helped him to his feet.

"Heard me what?"

"Heard you speak the language no one knows you can speak," Theo whispered lowly.

Harry froze, and paled even further, if that was possible. He cast a fearful glance to Professor Lupin, who was looking very uneasy.

"Sir..."

"Your secret is safe with me," the man said suddenly, a strangely soft look on his face.

"Sir," Harry said nervously, "Even Professor Dumbledore doesn't know."

"And it will remain that way," Professor Lupin said decidedly. "He won't hear anything from me."

Harry's eyes widened, and his friends were gaping at the professor.

The man smiled slightly. "Are you alright, Harry?"

He hesitated. "What happened?"

"Dementors," both Tom and Professor Lupin said at the same time

Harry's eyes lit up. "Does that mean you cast a _patronus_ charm to get rid of it?" he asked eagerly.

Professor Lupin's eyebrows went up. "Yes, very good, Harry." He smiled at him with that strange, soft smile again. "Now, I really must speak with the driver. Excuse me."

When he left, Harry collapsed onto his seat as Theo went over to close the door.

" _Are_ you alright?" Hermione asked concernedly, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder.

He nodded weakly. "Yeah...just...exhausted," he said, taking a bite out of his chocolate. "What happened?"

Theo shrugged. "That thing appeared, and you started having a fit, or something – you went all rigid and slipped off your seat...then you started hissing things in parseltonge. That's when Professor Lupin showed up and scared the dementor off."

Harry sighed. "Did any of you...?"

All three of them shook their heads.

Harry sighed. "I guess that makes sense."

Hermione frowned. "Why?"

"Dementors feed off of bad memories," Harry explained, and realization dawned on his friends' sympathetic faces. "Anyway, I wonder what it was doing here..."

"They guard Azkaban, right?" Draco said, "They're probably looking for Sirius Black."

Hermione frowned. "That sounds familiar."

"You don't know?" Draco asked amusedly.

Hermione shook her head with a slightly irritated frown.

Draco looked immensely pleased at her confusion. "Sirius Black was the one who..." He froze, glancing at Harry.

"He betrayed my parents to Lord Voldemort," Harry said quietly, reminding himself that he couldn't let on that Black was actually innocent, "He told him where to find them. He...recently escaped from Azkaban. Remember? We saw the announcement on the telly."

Hermione gasped. "Oh Harry..."

"He murdered a bunch of muggles too," Theo put on, "Blew up a whole street, and some bloke named Peter Pettigrew."

Draco nodded, eyes glimmering a bit. "The only thing left of him was a finger."

Oh, he hadn't known that little fact -

Suddenly, Harry froze, puzzle pieces snapping into place in his mind.

He and Tom had been discouraged to find out that Sirius Black had escaped prison; it was likely that he would be executed on the spot if – when – he was found, and they would never get a chance to get him a trial. The only solution was to prove his innocence without him – which they could only do if they handed over Peter Pettigrew, who was missing or dead. But...

What if Peter Pettigrew cut off his finger to make his escape, faking his own death? Peter Pettigrew was a rat animagus. And two years ago on the day, Harry had met a rat with a missing toe – Scabbers, Ron Weasley's pet rat, who had been in the family for twelve years. It fit. It all fit.

"Harry? Are you ok?" Hermione asked, shaking him slightly.

He nodded dazedly. "Just tired...if it's all the same to you...I'm going to take a short nap."

That would give him an opportunity to do some thinking.

* * *

"Harry, what happened?" Madame Pomfrey said, alarmed, as she swept into Professor Snape's office.

"Noth -"

"It was a dementor," Professor Snape said smoothly, an unreadable look on his face.

A dark look came over Madame Pomfrey's face, as she began to fuss over Harry. "He's all clammy. Terrible things, dementors are...he won't be the last one who collapses."

Professor Snape said nothing.

"How do you feel, Harry?"

He shrugged. "Just tired. I'm fine really, Professor Lupin gave me some chocolate, and I slept for a few minutes on the train, which helped, I think."

Madame Pomfrey's eyebrows rose. "Did he, now? So we've finally got a Defence against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies?"

"Professor Lupin seemed very competent," Harry said, and Professor Snape sneered at him.

"Good! It's about time!"

"Poppy," Professor Snape cut in impatiently, "Will Potter need to spend the night in the hospital wing, or can I escort him to the Welcoming Feast?"

Madame Pomfrey pursed her lips. "Are you sure you're alright, Harry?"

"Quite."

"Then you can go. Make sure to eat some more chocolate, though."

Harry wouldn't argue with that.

When Harry arrived at the Slytherin table, the sorting had already came and went, and he received numerous confused and wary stares; a few people seemed to pale upon seeing him, leaving him rather puzzled.

"Where were you?" Theo asked.

Harry shrugged. "Professor Snape just had Madame Pomfrey check on me. It was nothing, really."

"Oh Harry, what happened?" Daphne said sweetly from across the table. Harry could have been wrong, but he thought her voice sounded more saccharine than usual.

"A dementor tried to suck my soul out," he replied blandly.

Most people in the vicinity blanched at that (well, more than they already had upon seeing him), and Daphne cried out, "You poor thing!"

At that moment, the Headmaster stepped up onto the podium at the front of the room with a brilliant smile on his face.

"Welcome!" Professor Dumbledore said grandly, the candlelight shimmering on his silver beard. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast..." He cleared his throat and continued, "As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business."

He paused, looking visibly displeased.

"They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds," the elderly man stated, "And while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises - or even invisibility cloaks," he added pointedly, and Harry frowned at the obvious nod to him.

"It is not in the nature of a dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the dementors.

"On a happier note," he continued, "I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year.

"First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic applause. Harry smiled and clapped, but he froze when he noticed the look on Professor Snape's face. His dark eyes were glimmering furiously and his lips were twisted into an ugly shape; it was a look of utter loathing, an obvious hatred that put even Professor Snape's feelings for Harry to shame.

 _How very curious._

"As to our second new appointment," Professor Dumbledore continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away. "Well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs."

Harry's lips twitched.

"However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties."

 _The oaf?_ Tom asked incredulously.

Blinking, Harry grinned, applauding the very bashful looking part-giant and elbowing Theo (who was staring at the Headmaster incredulously, along with most of Slytherin House) pointedly, causing the other boy to clap slowly and rather sarcastically.

A part of him was wishing that he had chosen to take Care of Magical Creatures after all.

"Well, I think that's everything of importance," said Professor Dumbledore. "Let the feast begin!"

The golden plates and goblets before them filled suddenly with food and drink.

Harry was about to dish himself out some food when he noticed it again – everyone who usually sat near him was staring at him uneasily, faces unsure.

He blinked. "Did...something happen? You all look a bit under the weather." He frowned. "Did the dementors get to you too?"

No answer.

Theo cleared his throat. "Er, Harry? Do you remember what happened last time we all had dinner together?"

Harry frowned thoughtfully...that was the year end feast, wasn't it? What happened at the...

 _You hinted at the fact that you were the direct cause your Defence against the Dark Arts professor's demise...again._

Harry blanched. "Oh, right...umm..." He smiled brilliantly. "Don't worry about that! It was just a joke, really. I didn't do anything, and even if I had, I'm sure I'd be all better by now. I'm rather resilient."

Everyone looked at each other, bemused, but began to dish out their dinner, so Harry counted it as a success.

"So," Tracey began casually, "What happened on the train?"

Harry's smile drained from his face, and he shrugged dejectedly. "I reacted poorly to a dementor, is all."

"What do you mean, reacted poorly?" Parkinson cut in, eyes widening a second later before she leaned back uneasily in her seat.

Theo scowled. "Leave him alone. It's none of your business."

Parkinson huffed, looking very indignant.

Meanwhile, Harry sighed in relief, not really eager to share his experience.

"Well I hope you're in top shape again soon, Potter – we've got the Quidditch Cup to win," Marcus Flint said from the other side of the table.

Harry frowned. "I thought you graduated with Hortense."

Flint smirked. "Had to repeat a year. Another year to beat you sorry lot into shape."

Higgs rolled his eyes, casting a sidelong glance at Harry. "Trust you to be happy about repeating a year. I don't suppose you managed to practise this summer, Potter?"

Harry grimaced. "Sorry, still no broom."

"Honestly," Bole said with a scowl, "What's wrong with these guardians of yours? You're the best Seeker Hogwarts has seen in years – if it were my parents, they'd be buying me the fastest brooms out there."

Harry's grimace grew. "There's lots wrong with them, I assure you."

Tracey raised her eyebrow at him. "And you're _still_ not going to tell us anything about them?"

"He doesn't have to tell you anything," Theo cut in defensively.

Tracey rolled her eyes. "Come off it, Theo. It's not like I'm harassing your boyfriend or anything."

"He's not my boyfriend," Theo said, tone still notably defensive, while Daphne snapped the same thing.

Harry sighed. "Let's talk about something else."

"...like what?"

"What's everyone taking this year?"

"Divination and Ancient Runes," all of the girls said at once.

Harry scowled. "You're _all_ taking Divination?"

"What's wrong with Divination?" Millicent asked.

"What, aside from being _D_ _ivination?_ "

Tracey rolled her eyes, and Daphne looked embarrassed. As usual, Parkinson was just scowling at him – although, she still looked a little guarded.

"Honestly, Potter, you should have been in Ravenclaw - you're such and arrogant know-it-all," she blurted out.

"He is not!" Daphne exclaimed.

"And you're an annoying bitch, Pansy," Theo said angrily.

The girl's expression changed from wary to furious in a split second. "How dare you!"

"Quite easily, I assure you," Theo sneered.

"I'm not the only bitch here. It must be so nice for Potter, having you as his very own -"

Two green projectiles smacked into her face

"Why you little bastard – "

Theo cackled. "I assure you my pare-

A carrot was launched at Theo's nose.

And thus began a very covert, Slytherin food fight.

"At least they're getting it out of the way," Millicent whispered beside Harry.

Harry nodded helplessly. Yes, at least things were back to normal.

* * *

Harry sighed as he collapsed into his bed after casting a privacy charm.

"Can you teach me the _patronus_ charm?" he whispered as he laid back on his pillow, closing his eyes and yawning. One nice thing about Tom's new ability to communicate with him telepathically was that he no longer needed to keep his eyes open to chat with his best friend.

 _...no._

Harry frowned. "Why not?"

 _The patronus charm is...not in my spell repertoire._

Harry's eyes opened, and he blinked. "Wait, so you literally _can't_ teach it to me."

 _...yes,_ Tom said grouchily.

"Well, have you tried to learn it?"

 _...yes._

"Why didn't it work?"

Tom sighed. _It is very advanced light magic and it requires...powerful happy memories._

Harry frowned. "But you have lots of those, don't you?"

 _Apparently torturing people doesn't count. They have to be 'pure',_ Tom said with a sneer.

"Ah..." Harry said thoughtfully. "I suppose you just need to avoid them, then?"

 _I need do no such thing. Dementors have little effect on me._

"You seemed awfully worried earlier."

 _They have little effect on_ me _\- you, on the other hand, seem to be quite susceptible._

Harry grimaced. "Then what are we going to do about the dementors?"

 _Not go outside,_ Tom said shortly.

"I can't just stay inside all year!"

 _Why not?_

"Because...because...Hogsmeade..."

Tom scoffed at him. _I would at this point remind you that our life is far more important than a pointless expedition to what happens to be a very boring little village._

"It's not boring," Harry pouted, "Everyone says it's great."

 _That's because they're imbecilic, worthless children with nothing better to do with their time. If you stay behind I can teach you more curses._

Harry sighed. "We'll see...Oh, but what about Quidditch!"

 _Haven't you outgrown that nonsense yet?_

Harry scowled. "You don't _outgrow_ Quidditch."

Harry could feel Tom's displeasure.

"Oh, also! Before I forget – I think I found a way to get Sirius Black a trial!" That should successfully change the subject.

Sure enough, it did.

 _Oh?_

"We find Peter Pettigrew, have him captured, and then they'll call off the search for Black!"

 _Which would be an excellent plan were it not for the fact that Pettigrew is, at worst, dead, and at best, missing._

"I know, but I think I found him! When Theo and Draco were talking today about how Pettigrew got blown up, he mentioned that all that was left was a finger. So I was thinking – what if Pettigrew cut off his own finger to make it _look_ like he was blown up, and then turned into a rat and escaped?"

 _A fascinating theory, but I must wonder where such a far-fetched tale came from._

Here, Harry grinned. "Scabbers."

 _What?_

"Ron Weasley's pet rat. It's a fat grey rat that's been in his family for exactly twelve years now, and it happens to be missing one of its front toes. Interesting coincidence, isn't it?"

 _...yes, very interesting indeed. This may actually guarantee Sirius Black a trial._

Harry nodded eagerly. "So all I need to do is find somebody who knows that Pettigrew is an animagus, get them to tell me, and let the bit about Ron's rat slip."

 _Is that all?_ Tom said wryly.

Harry grimaced. "It's not quite a plan yet...but at least it's something.

 _Indeed. I will think on it._

Harry smiled weakly, as he closed his eyes again.

 _Don't sleep yet._

"What? Why not?"

 _Recall, we're going to the restricted section._

"Right...soul magic."

 _You would do well to remember your tasks, Harry. Reminding you so often grows tiresome. And I do not suffer tiresome tasks._

"Not like you have much else to do," Harry muttered, wincing at the sharp pain that immediately followed. _:Sorry Tom.:_

 _Enough. Fetch your cloak. We have several hundred books to search._

Harry sighed. "Yes, Tom."

In the end, Harry's search yielded no results, despite the fact that he made it through a good quarter of the entire restricted section. He was so exhausted by the end of it that he ended up falling asleep under his invisibility cloak, and when he woke at sunrise, he barely had enough time to rush to his dorm and tuck himself in before anyone noticed.

Suffice it to say, his first day of classes was going to be one spent half asleep.

* * *

Don't forget to leave me a note!


	44. The Boggart

**Disclaimer:** Don't own nothin'.

 **AN1:** Finally, finally back. Germany was amazing - got lots of exercise, had a spiritually transformative experience and everything - thanks for asking. Anyway, hopefully back to posting once a week. Thank you all for your patience!

 **AN2:** Yeah, so, there might be a few mistakes in here - didn't get a chance to edit as thoroughly as I usually do (have to help my mom at work), so I'll do a quick run-through later just in case. Just wanted to get the chapter out since it will be a little while before I can sit back down with it again.

* * *

 **Chapter 44: The Boggart**

"So, is _anyone_ taking Arithmancy?" Harry asked distractedly as he listed off the the Fibonacci numbers in the margin of his diary, trying to stay awake.

"Nope," Theo said, placing more strawberries on Harry's plate, "It'll be just you, Hermione, and a bunch of Ravenclaws. Eat."

Harry sighed, picking up one of the strawberries. "You all should really sit in on a few classes. It's incredibly useful." He popped the strawberry in his mouth.

Tracey snorted. "Pansy? In Arithmancy? Not going to happen."

"Hey!"

"Maybe you should come to Divination...you've got a free period, right?" Millicent suggested.

"No," Harry said simply, rising to his feet. "I'm going to the library to find a book on the history of south Asian warding techniques. You coming, Theo?"

"Er...I think I'll sit this one out."

"Suit yourself."

"Don't fall asleep. You look bloody awful, by the way. Did you sleep at all?"

Harry grimaced. "A few hours."

Theo quirked an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"Headache," Harry muttered, walking off to find his warding text.

Harry had suggested that the Order work on warding because he was quite eager to learn the fine art from a very well-rounded perspective. Tom was well versed in northern European warding techniques, along with some Egyptian and Hebrew, but had little experience with more obscure traditions; so Harry figured that with Hermione's help (seeing as she was nothing short of a research whiz), they might be able to explore some very useful but little-studied warding techniques. It was a good opportunity to try to do something besides learn the dark arts - which was a fine thing to do and everything, but that's not all the Order was supposed to be about.

Since south Asian warding was, indeed, a very rarely studied subject, it took him quite a while to find the book he wanted. By the time he did (while simultaneously resisting falling asleep in the library again...Theo would never let him live it down), it was already time to head to Transfiguration.

When he arrived, he was surprised to find many of his classmates looking quite ashen in the face – well, except for the Slytherins. The girls looked decidedly amused, which probably meant that something unfortunate had happened to a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff in divination, right? Upon scanning the room, he noticed that everyone's attention was drawn to Neville Longbottom, who was quivering in his front row seat, which answered that question.

Their class that day was about Animagi, which Harry was quite excited about. He fervently took notes on everything Professor McGonagall said, suppressing a giddy grin when Professor McGonagall transformed herself into a tabby cat with spectacle markings around her eyes. When she did so, he glanced eagerly over at his fellow Order members, expecting to see expressions of rapt attention on their faces, but he did not. While Draco was trying not to look impressed (he was never too fond of Professor McGonagall) Theo looked quite entranced, but Hermione, like many of their other classmates, seemed distracted even while Professor McGonagall transformed.

"Really, what has got into you all today?" Professor McGonagall asked, turning back into herself with a faint pop, and staring around at them all with pursed lips. "Not that it matters, but that's the first time my transformation's not got applause from a class."

Well obviously it didn't. Everyone else was inappropriately sullen and the Slytherins weren't going to clap if no one else was.

Nearly everyone's heads turned toward Neville when Professor McGonagall spoke, but nobody said a word. Then Hermione raised her hand, a grimace on her face.

"Please, Professor, we've just had our first Divination class, and we were reading the tea leaves, and -"

"Ah, of course," said Professor McGonagall, suddenly frowning. "There is no need to say any more, Miss Granger. Tell me, which of you will be dying this year?"

Wait, what?

"Me," Neville whispered, sounding quite faint.

"I see," Professor McGonagall said, fixing Neville with her usual stern gaze. "Then you should know, Longbottom, that Sibyll Trelawney has predicted the death of one student a year since she arrived at this school. None of them has died yet. Seeing death omens is her favourite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues -"

Professor McGonagall broke off as her voice grew louder and her words grew faster, and Harry could swear she was gritting her teeth. She went on, more calmly, "Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of magic -"

Harry found himself nodding. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Theo rolling his eyes.

"- I shall not conceal from you that I have very little patience with it. True Seers are very rare, and Professor Trelawney -"

She stopped again, and then said, in a very matter-of-fact tone, "You look in excellent health to me, Longbottom, so you will excuse me if I don't let you off homework today. I assure you that if you die, you need not hand it in."

Hermione laughed at that, but Neville's mental state didn't seem to be much improved.

After the class finished, Harry made a point of going over to see the timid boy, telling Theo he'd catch up with him. They weren't particularly close, but Harry felt some degree of kinship toward the other boy, considering Voldemort had targeted his family for the same reason he had targeted Harry's. He often wondered what the timid Gryffindor would be like if he'd ended up with a piece of Voldemort's soul inside him instead. Harry didn't like to think ill of his classmates, but he personally felt that the Longbottom boy wouldn't have lasted under Tom's tutelage.

"Not sure if it means anything, but I think Divination's a load of rubbish too. You've got nothing to worry about," he said confidently as he followed Neville out of the Transfiguration classroom.

Neville tried to smile. He made to say something, but hesitated. "I can't stop wondering why Professor Trelawny would say something like that if..." He trailed off.

Harry smiled sympathetically, suddenly feeling a little less sure of himself. "People like that kind of thing, Neville. They danger and drama, and they like to make other people feel weak if it makes them feel stronger or more important."

Neville looked at him oddly, and Harry couldn't tell if he was upset by the comment. "You really think so?"

Harry nodded. "It's human nature."

Neville nodded, looking a little miserable. "I suppose it _would_ be me then."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"Well, I'm..." Neville took a shuddering breath, and this time managed to smile, in a self-deprecating way. "I'm not like you, Harry. I'm an easy target. I'm weak..."

There was a sinking feeling in Harry's stomach. He hadn't meant to make Neville feel worse. "We all are," he said quickly.

Neville looked at him doubtfully.

"That was me once too, you know," Harry said without thinking, scolding himself a moment later. "I mean...I wasn't always...I mean, what I'm trying to say is...it doesn't have to be like that. Nobody's born strong."

Neville opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Harry continued, "You can become better, if you work at it. Maybe you just need help."

Neville laughed. "Who would help me?"

"I would," Harry said immediately. "If you ever asked, I would."

Neville stared at him for a moment, eyes wide. "Thanks Harry," he said softly.

He smiled shakily. "Don't mention it."

* * *

"I was wondering when we will be covering arithmantic functions and continuity," Harry stated. He had just finished his first Arithmancy class, and was...slightly concerned by the syllabus. He had been hoping that his studies would give him some extra guidance on how to go about crafting his spell, but there was nothing in the curriculum that was remotely helpful. It was all very basic; actually, it was quite like primary school maths review.

Professor Vector blinked at him. "Continuity of arithmantic functions?" She chuckled. "That's OWL, if not NEWT material, Mr. Potter."

Harry deflated at that. "But...but...how do we analyze rates of change for magical fluctuations without derivatives? You can't craft any kind of advanced elemental spells without doing that."

Professor Vector raised an eyebrow. "My, my, Mr. Potter, you _have_ done your reading. I'm assuming you've been engaging in extracurricular readings on the subject?"

Harry nodded. "Yes ma'am."

"May I ask what you've been reading?"

"Oh, well, I read the third and fourth year textbooks, and then I read George Mansel's _Handbook of Arithmancy: with an Emphasis on Applications to Warding and Spell-Crafting,_ which is admittedly not all that well-rounded, but I learned a lot."

"And you understood that?" Professor Vector asked curiously.

"Well, not all of it, but I've done a lot of reading on general mathematics. I started reading a calculus textbook this summer. I only got through the first chapter but...it's really interesting stuff, and I had hoped we might touch on how to apply the concepts in class, because I'm still pretty shaky on the details," Harry admitted.

Professor Vector was staring at him critically now. "So what you mean to tell me, Mr. Potter, is that you're already comfortable with Baezel's Axioms and the concept of an arithmantic function?"

"Perhaps not comfortable...but definitely familiar."

The woman continued to stare at him critically, eyes narrowed in thought. "You were raised with muggles, weren't you?"

Harry tried not to grimace. "...yes."

"Then how about this, Mr. Potter – if you can by the end of the term hand in five exercises from every chapter in the third year text, and from the first half of the fourth year text, I'll move you up a year."

Harry gaped at her. "Really?"

The woman nodded, a subtle smile on her face. "Indeed. It's not unheard of, you see, for muggle-raised witches and wizards to skip a year in my class – those who excelled at maths in muggle school often find third year Arithmancy curriculum to be more review than anything."

Harry grinned. "Thank you so much! I won't let you down!" He paused. "Actually...I hope it's not too much to ask, but my friend Hermione, she's kind of in the same situation as me."

She would have stayed behind to ask the same thing, but Muggle Studies was on the other side of the castle.

"My offer can extend to her as well," Professor Vector said. "Like I said, it's something of a policy of mine."

Suffice it to say, Hermione had been _thrilled_ when she heard the news later that day.

"Honestly, you two are absolutely ridiculous," Theo told them on the way to Defence against the Dark Arts. "Arithmancy is supposed to be really, _really_ hard."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's because you purebloods never learn any _real_ maths before coming to Hogwarts. And certainly none after."

"We do too!" Draco and Theo said at once.

"Then I suppose you know what functions and graphs and probabilities are, and how to solve for variables in trigonometric functions and calculate the areas of polygons," Hermione said.

"Er..."

"That's what I thought," Hermione said snippily.

Harry chuckled.

"It so happens that Harry and I are very proficient in maths – even more than the average muggle, so it's not all that surprising that we'd be a bit ahead of everyone else in Arithmancy," Hermione explained, with some measure of smugness in her voice.

Theo rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Hermione."

The first thing they noticed when they entered their Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was that Professor Lupin was not present. The room was mostly empty – the portraits Lockhart had hung up were thankfully gone, and apparently Professor Lupin hadn't thought it necessary to decorate in any way. It was probably for the best, given the man's apparel.

Hermione glanced at her watch as she sat down and began to pull out her books and stationary. The other students were doing so as well.

"Is he late?" Theo asked.

Hermione pursed her lips. "Not yet, but he better show up soon."

"Oh yeah? What'll you do if he doesn't?"

"She'll let Harry murder him," Draco muttered, causing everyone to glare at him. "Sorry." But not that sorry, based on his tone.

Professor Lupin chose that moment to walk into the classroom. The man smiled vaguely at them as he walked to the head of the room, and placed his tattered brown leather briefcase on the teacher's desk. He looked as shabby as he did on September 1st, but seemed healthier than he had on the train, as though he had had a few decent meals.

"Good afternoon," he said pleasantly. "Would you please put all your books back in your bags? Today's will be a practical lesson. You will need only your wands."

Harry blinked, somewhat shocked. Were they _actually_ going to learn some defence?

 _Finally._

"Right then," Professor Lupin said once everyone was ready. "If you'd follow me."

Looking somewhat baffled, yet curious, Harry's classmates rose to their feet and followed Professor Lupin out of the classroom. He led them along the deserted corridor and around a corner, where the first thing they saw was Peeves, who was floating upside down in midair and stuffing the nearest keyhole with chewing gum.

Peeves didn't look up until Professor Lupin was a couple of feet away, and then he wiggled his curly-toed feet and broke into song.

"Loony, loopy Lupin," Peeves sang annoyingly, a menacingly silly grin on his face, "Loony, loopy Lupin, loony, loopy Lupin -"

Despite being a complete and utter menace, Peeves usually showed some degree of respect toward the teachers, but apparently this did not extend to poor Professor Lupin.

Harry, along with all his classmates, glanced at the professor to see how he would take Peeve's disrespectful behaviour, and to their surprise, he was still smiling.

Harry had to commend the man on his mild-manneredness.

"I'd take that gum out of the keyhole if I were you, Peeves," he said, tone still remarkably pleasant. "Mr. Filch won't be able to get to his brooms."

Peeves, however, paid no heed to Professor Lupin's words, except to blow a loud wet raspberry.

Professor Lupin gave a small sigh and took out his wand.

"This is a useful little spell," he told the class over his shoulder. "Please watch closely."

He raised the wand to shoulder height, and said _"Waddiwasi!_ " as he pointed it at Peeves.

Instantly, the wad of chewing gum shot out of the keyhole and straight down Peeves's left nostril. Seemingly shocked and somewhat disturbed, he whirled upright and zoomed away, cursing.

Harry tried to keep himself from gaping. How was _that_ a real spell?

"Shall we proceed?"

They set off again, the class looking at Professor Lupin with increased respect. It was a bit sad, but that _was_ the most impressive thing they'd seen a Defence professor do yet.

"Inside, please," the man said as he opened the door they had just arrived in front of – it was the door to the staff room.

The staff room was empty except for one teacher. Professor Snape was sitting in a rigid-looking black armchair, and upon seeing them, he looked around disdainfully. His eyes were narrowed and there was a nasty sneer playing around his mouth.

As Professor Lupin came in and made to close the door behind him, Professor Snape said with a sneer, "Leave it open, Lupin. I'd rather not witness this."

He got to his feet and strode past the class, his black robes billowing behind him as they were often inclined to do. At the doorway he turned on his heel and said, "Possibly no one's warned you, Lupin, but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I would advise you not to entrust him with anything difficult. Not unless Miss Granger is hissing instructions in his ear."

Neville went scarlet in the face, and cast a fleeting glance

Professor Lupin merely raised his eyebrows, though.

"I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the first stage of the operation," he said lightly, "And I am sure he will perform it admirably."

Neville's face went, if possible, even redder.

Professor Snape's lip curled in obvious disgust, but he left it at that, shutting the door with a loud clap as he swept away.

"Now, then," said Professor Lupin, unfazed by Professor Snape's dramatic exit, beckoning the class toward the end of the room, where there was nothing but an old wardrobe where the teachers kept their spare robes. As Professor Lupin went to stand next to it, the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble, banging against the wall.

"Nothing to worry about," Professor Lupin said calmly. "There's a boggart in there."

Oh, this could be quite fun.

"Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces," Professor Lupin began, "Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks - I've even met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock." He paused. "So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what is a boggart?"

Hermione put up her hand immediately, and glared briefly at Theo and Draco, as well as Ron, Thomas, and Finnigan, who were all snickering at her.

"It's a shape-shifter," she said, ignoring them pointedly. "It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most."

"Couldn't have put it better myself," said Professor Lupin, and Hermione beamed at him. "So the boggart sitting in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form. He does not yet know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears.

"This means," Professor Lupin concluded, choosing to ignore Neville's small squeal of terror, "That we have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it...Harry?"

Clearly somewhat disappointed that she would not have the chance to answer this question as well, Hermione settled on staring at him expectantly while her hand twitched, as though hoping that he'd decline to answer. As if. After all, in class, they were still rivals. And Defence was _his._

"Well, assuming that we all fear different things, it might get a bit confused, I suppose."

"Precisely," said Professor Lupin, and Hermione finally relaxed her hand, looking even more disappointed. "It's always best to have company when you're dealing with a boggart. He becomes confused."

 _They are quite unintelligent, which is a shame,_ Tom put in.

"Which should he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I once saw a boggart make that very mistake - tried to frighten two people at once and turned himself into half a slug. Not remotely frightening."

Harry grimaced. He imagined that some people would still find half a slug a gruesome enough sight.

"The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing. There are no wand movements required, and the incantation is _Riddikulus._ But that's the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And this is where you come in, Neville."

The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as Neville, who walked forward as though he were approaching the gates of Hades themselves.

"Right, Neville," said Professor Lupin. "First things first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?"

Neville's lips moved, but no noise came out.

"Didn't catch that, Neville, sorry," said Professor Lupin cheerfully.

Neville glanced around the room frantically, as though begging someone to help him, then said, in barely more than a whisper, "Professor Snape."

Nearly everyone laughed at that. Even Harry couldn't help himself, though he immediately felt quite bad afterward. Neville was also laughing, though, which made him feel a bit better.

"Professor Snape... hmmm... Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?"

"Er - yes," said Neville nervously. "But - I don't want the boggart to turn into her either."

"No, no, you misunderstand me," said Professor Lupin, now smiling. "I wonder, could you tell us what sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?"

Neville looked startled, but said, "Well... always the same hat. A tall one with a stuffed vulture on top."

Harry almost choked. What a fascinating woman.

"And a long dress... green, normally... and sometimes a fox-fur scarf."

The woman obviously had some obsession with dead animals.

"And a handbag?" prompted Professor Lupin.

"A big red one," said Neville.

"Right then," Professor Lupin said thoughtfully. "Can you picture those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them in your mind's eye?"

"Yes," said Neville uncertainly, obviously wondering what was coming next.

"When the boggart bursts out of this wardrobe, Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of Professor Snape," said Lupin, ignoring Neville's second squeak of terror. "And you will raise your wand - thus - and cry 'Riddikulus' - and concentrate hard on your grandmother's clothes. If all goes well, Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into that vulture-topped hat, and that green dress, with that big red handbag." Professor Lupin turned to the rest of the class, who were all now snickering. "If Neville is successful, the boggart is likely to shift his attention to each of us in turn," said Professor Lupin. "I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical..."

Harry froze. He had no idea what scared him most. It wasn't that he was never scared, but he found that more often than not, he was scared of things that a boggart would not be able to turn into. He was scared of disappointing Tom...he was afraid of becoming a bad person...he was afraid of failing...of dying...

So what would the boggart turn into, and how could he make any of it remotely funny?

"Everyone ready?" Professor Lupin, asked.

Harry felt a lurch of nervousness. He wasn't ready. Not at all.

Tom was conspicuously silent.

"Neville, we're going to back away," said Professor Lupin. "Let you have a clear field, all right? I'll call the next person forward...Everyone back, now, so Neville can get a clear shot -"

They all retreated, backed against the walls, leaving Neville alone beside the wardrobe. He looked like he might bolt at any second, but summoning up all his Gryffindor courage, he had pushed up the sleeves of his robes and was holding his wand at the ready.

"On the count of three, Neville," said Professor Lupin, who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the wardrobe. "One - two - three - now!"

A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin's wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst open, and, hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape stepped out dramatically, his black eyes flashing at Neville.

It was a very impressive likeness, Harry could not help but think. He could practically see the boggart pulling a textbook out of his sleeve to slap Thomas and Finnigan (who were sniggering in the back of the room) over the head.

Meanwhile, Neville backed away, his wand up, mouthing wordlessly. The likeness of the Potions Professor was bearing down upon him, reaching inside his robes...

" _R-r-riddikulus_!" Neville squeaked out.

There was a noise like the cracking of a whip, and suddenly Professor Snape stumbled; he was now wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and a huge crimson handbag was hanging off his arm.

A roar of laughter filled the room; the boggart paused, confused, and Professor Lupin shouted,"Pansy! Forward"

Clearly trying very hard to keep her cool, Parkinson all but sauntered forward, giving a bit of a jump when a loud _Crack!_ Sounded, leaving a giant, bloodthirsty-looking (Harry was pretty sure there was a story there) rat in its wake.

Lips curling in horrified disgust, she shouted. _"Riddikulus!"_

And suddenly the rat was much smaller and chasing its tail, tripping over itself.

The rat became a giant ant, then – Crack! - a wailing banshee, and then – Crack! - a rabid dog, and then – Crack! - on and on they went, and each student in turn got a chance to face what was apparently what scared them most.

Throughout the whole thing, Harry had to keep himself from gaping. Were these honestly what his classmates feared most? He didn't want to belittle anybody, but...

"Dean!"

Dean Thomas hurried forward.

Crack! A bloody eyeball became a severed hand, which flipped over and began to creep along the floor like a crab.

Given, it was creepy, but...

 _"Riddikulus!"_ Thomas shouted.

'There was a loud snap, and the hand was trapped in a mousetrap.

"Excellent! Ron, you next!"

Ron leapt forward, a nervous grin on his face.

Crack!

A number of people screamed; a giant spider, six feet tall and covered in hair, was advancing on Ron, clicking its pincers menacingly. For a moment, Harry thought Ron had frozen stiff.

" _Riddikulus_!" Ron bellowed a moment later, and the spider's legs vanished; it rolled over and over, causing Lavender Brown to squeal and run out of its way, and it came to a halt at Harry's feet. He raised his wand, ready, but -

"Here!" shouted Professor Lupin suddenly, hurrying forward.

Crack!

The legless spider had vanished. For a second, everyone looked wildly around to see where it was. Then they saw a silvery-white orb hanging in the air in front of Lupin, who said, _"Riddikulus!"_ almost lazily.

Crack!

Harry watched in fascination as the mysterious orb transformed into a white balloon.

"Theo, come on!"

Theo cringed, not looking very prepared at all, but he stepped forward anyway, and a moment later – Crack!

A body was lying on the floor, bleeding, and Harry could see everyone inching closer to get a better look. It took Harry a moment to realize who it was – it was him, or rather, his corpse, lying limp on the ground.

His stomach turned.

 _How touching,_ Tom mocked, but Harry could tell that he sounded quite pleased, almost gleeful.

Theo paled drastically, but took a deep breath, and said resolutely, _"Riddikulus!"_

Crack!

The body jumped up with a grin and began to dust the blood off itself.

It was disconcerting, Harry decided, watching this grinning, blood-covered version of himself. As long as it made Theo feel better, he supposed...

Professor Lupin hesitated, before announcing, "Excellent work, Theo! Hannah!"

The timid Hufflepuff stepped forward, and a moment later – Crack! A large, fanged lizard was standing in front of them.

The girl drew back, but a moment later, lifted her shaking wand, stuttering out, _"Riddikulus!"_

Crack!

The lizard turned into a cotton stuffed lizard with beads for eyes.

"It's confused!" Professor Lupin said cheerfully. "We're getting there! Tracey!"

Crack! An inferius was crouched on the ground, and slowly rose to its feet, swaying slightly. Tracey's eyes went wide and her hand was shaking slightly as she raised her wand.

" _Riddikulus!"_

Crack!

"Forward, Neville, and finish him off!" said Lupin as the boggart collapsed on the floor as a paper doll.

Crack!

Professor Snape was back. This time Neville charged forward, looking determined.

 _"Riddikulus!"_ he shouted, and they had a split second's view of Professor Snape in his lacy dress before Neville let out a great "Ha!" of laughter, and the boggart exploded, burst into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke, which rallied in a great swirl, and flew back into the wardrobe, slamming the door shut behind it.

"Excellent!" cried Professor Lupin as the class broke into applause. "Excellent Neville. Well done, everyone... Let me See... five points for every person to tackle the boggart - ten for Neville because he did it twice... and five each to Hermione and Harry." He looked around and smiled. "Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework, kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it for me...to be handed in on Monday. That will be all."

The students left the room with enormous clamour, excited shouts echoing through the halls. The Gryffindors were particularly noisy.

"Did you see me take that banshee?" Finnigan yelled triumphantly.

"And the hand!" Thomas put in, waving his hands around wildly.

"And Snape in that hat!"

"And my mummy!"

"Not a word, Pansy," Theo hissed at Parkinson, who was smirking at him.

"You're adorable, Theo," Tracey said with a smirk, as she walked off with Parkinson following behind her, a smug smile on her face.

"I wonder why Professor Lupin's frightened of crystal balls?" Millicent wondered absently as she trailed behind them.

Meanwhile, Hermione had walked over to where Harry and Theo were waiting in line to leave the hallway. "He seems like a very good teacher," she said approvingly. "But I wish I could have had a turn with the boggart -"

"What would it have been for you?" Ron said over his shoulder, snickering. "A piece of homework that only got nine out of ten?"

Hermione scowled, sniffing as she brushed forward, no doubt heading to the library.

Meanwhile, Harry followed behind Theo, who was lingering near the back of the crowd, shoulders slumped. He hesitated for a few moments, but steeling himself, he reached out and put his hand on Theo's shoulder, causing the other boy to stop short and spin around.

"Harry?" Theo asked, sounding a bit frantic.

"I...I'm sorry."

Theo blinked. "For what?"

Harry grimaced. "I didn't realize how much...I didn't realize that my...I take our friendship for granted, and I'm sorry."

Theo gaped at him.

"I've done things, thinking that my life is the only thing at stake, and I never thought of how it might make you feel...and that was selfish of me."

Harry could feel Tom's incredulity in the back of his mind.

"N-no, don't worry, Harry." Theo grinned nervously. "That boggart was...it was nothing...it was just...just..."

"I'm honoured to have a friend who cares for me as much as you do. And I promise I'll be more careful from now on."

Theo smiled weakly. "Right...um...thanks. Now...library?I, um, I think Hermione's already there..." He strode purposefully forward, a nervous smile on his face.

Harry nodded, smiling back, and made to follow his friend; but his gaze lingered on the now empty staff room, still incredibly curious as to what his boggart would have been.

* * *

In the end, Harry couldn't resist. Late that night, after everyone had already gone to sleep, Harry fetched his invisibility cloak out of his trunk and slipped out of his bed, holding his breath as he left his dorm and tip-toed across the Slytherin Common Room.

The staff room was cold, silent, and dark when he found it.

" _Lumos."_

In the soft golden glow emitted from his wand, Harry found himself once more in front of the shadowy, looming form of the wardrobe the boggart had taken up residence in.

Steeling himself, he whispered, _"Alohomora."_

The wardrobe clicked open, and, a moment later, a thin white hand slipped out. Following it, a tall, black clad figure stepped out, white serpentine face drawn into a cruel and yet eerily tranquil shape, wand raised.

" _Avada -"_

Immediately, Harry prepared to throw himself out of the way but then -

Crack!

Suddenly, Voldemort was lying on the ground in a puddle of blood, crimson eyes open wide but dull, uncharacteristically hollow and lifeless.

Gasping, Harry stepped back, raising his wand as he tried to think of some way to make Tom's death amusing.

Crack!

The boggart had changed again, and now Harry was faced with himself, his skin abnormally pale and his eyes blazing red.

Crack!

All of a sudden, a dementor was hovering before him, cloak billowing in an absent breeze. Harry could feel dread creeping up inside his chest, and could feel his veins turning to ice when -

Crack!

And then there was a child. It was a small child, around the age of four or five, maybe six, with messy black hair and bright, gleaming green eyes hiding behind broken glasses. The child was staring at him, face guileless , eyes wide and honest, holding out his hands; one of them stained with blood, trickling from his finger onto his palm, and the other clutching a stainless steel kitchen knife tightly.

Harry felt himself freeze, and all his breath escaped his chest, leaving an aching hollowness behind, tainted only slightly by a softly, sweetly humming nostalgia.

The child took a step forward.

 _Harry, enough!_

Instantly, he snapped to attention, brain jerking into action.

" _Riddikulus!"_

Crack!

Suddenly, the little boy flopped to the floor, now nothing more than a ragdoll.

Harry released a shuddering breath, which was loud like the roar of the ocean in his ears.

"Well, I can honestly say I've never seen one person confuse a boggart all on their own," a soft voice commented from behind him.

He spun around, finding Professor Lupin standing in the doorway.

"Why don't you come with me to my office, Harry?" the man suggested mildly.

Harry looked down at the boggart lying on the floor. "Sir -"

"I'll take care of it later," his professor said with a small smile. "Come, I'll make us a pot of tea."

Two minutes later Harry was sitting on a spindly wooden chair, awkwardly fidgeting his fingers as his professor busied himself readying two cups of tea. He tried very hard to focus on staring at the piles of books and stacks of parchment littering his Defence against the Dark Arts professor's office, in a vain attempt to distract himself from the nervousness he felt. Still, Professor Lupin had some very interesting titles on display, many of them intriguingly specific – _A History of Indonesian Curse Breaking, Amphibious Magical Creatures of the South Pacific, Ritualistic Curses of the Incas, Greek Water Demons,_ and _Arabian Hexes and Curses_ , to name a few.

"Does Indonesia have a rich history of Curse Breaking, sir?" Harry asked quietly.

The man looked up from the kettle he had just filled with a wordless _aguamenti_ charm. "It does indeed, Harry. Do you have an interest in Curse Breaking?"

"Spell-crafting, actually," Harry replied, pleased that he had successfully managed to steer the conversation away from the boggart.

Professor Lupin's eyebrows rose, and his face betrayed some degree of surprise. He tapped the kettle with his wand, and a moment later a blast of steam exploded from the spout. "Is that so?"

Harry nodded. "You sound surprised, sir."

Professor Lupin smiled at him as he placed tea bags in a couple of mugs and began to pour the boiling water into them. "I am. It's not often you hear of a third year Hogwarts student being interested in spell-crafting." He handed a mug to Harry. "Are you taking Ancient Runes or Arithmancy?"

"Both, sir."

"No need to call me sir, Harry, it's just us here. You can call me Remus."

"A-alright...Remus." He'd never called an adult by their first name before. Well, except Tom, but he was rather an exception in every way, wasn't he?

The man smiled. "I suppose you've heard something of spell-crafting mentioned in your classes, then? As I recall, we went over it a bit in Ancient Runes, but I thought that wasn't until much later..."

Harry shrugged. "They haven't really gone into it much. Most of what I know I learned on my own."

"Is that so?"

Harry nodded, heart beating quickly. He didn't know why he was feeling nervous, and very calm at the same time. " _A Beginner's Guide to Spell-Crafting_ was actually the first magic book I ever read."

Again, Professor Lup- Remus's eyebrows shot up, and he looked rather impressed. "I'm familiar with the text – interesting read. That was your first magic book? That's very impressive indeed, Harry."

Harry smiled, suddenly feeling quite warm inside. Something about Remus seemed incredibly...honest and genuine, something that resonated within Harry. Something that told him that this was a good person.

 _Probably a Gryffindor...or a Hufflepuff,_ Tom had commented after their first Defence against the Dark Arts class.

Suddenly struck by an idea, he said, "I can show you something, if you like."

Remus looked even more surprised now. "You've already managed to craft a spell?" he asked incredulously.

"Just something small," Harry said quickly, "And it doesn't work all the time, yet...I haven't shown anyone yet either. But...well, maybe you could give me a few pointers."

Tom was refusing to help, after all.

 _If you want to spend your time on crafting silly tricks, you can do it on your own._

Remus's face broke out into a smile. "Of course, Harry. I'm no expert in spell crafting, but I'll do what I can."

Harry grinned slightly. He reached over to pick up two of the quills on Remus's desk. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

Harry took out his wand and transfigured one of the quills into a steel disk, which he placed a couple of inches away from the other quill. Then, clearing his throat, he twirled his wand and pointed it at the quill. _"Magnes_."

The effect was instantaneous – the steel disk immediately flew over to the quill, attaching itself to it . Two seconds later, it clattered back down to the desk.

"Magnetism!" Remus said, amazed.

"I noticed an absence of any spells to do with electricity and magnetism, so I thought it might be interesting to work on it...it's hard, though. Really, really hard. I was working through the arrays all summer, and I've been over the theory at least fifty times already, but but it only lasts a couple of seconds, and I can't control the radius at all, and sometimes it doesn't even work and sometimes it works a bit too well...it's not very good yet -"

Remus chuckled, and Harry realized that he'd started rambling.

"On the contrary, Harry, this is very, very impressive."

"It doesn't even work properly yet, though," Harry said morosely.

"No," Remus admitted, "But it's a very good start."

"So...do you...have any suggestions?"

Remus took a sip of his tea. "Well...I think your best bet is to make the incantation longer – the more specific, the better, with something like this; there are a few spells I know of related to magnetism, and they can be quite tricky. I'm assuming you've been focusing on the wand movements?"

Harry nodded. "It was easiest to translate the physics into arithmantic formulas, and then into arrays, and then into wand movements."

Remus nodded. "I would imagine so. But try thinking of it as a transfiguration spell, rather than a charm."

Harry's eyes widened. "I need to specify a baseline or a threshold."

"Exactly. And you can't do that with wand movements alone. It might take a few more months of research and some good old-fashioned experimenting, but it will be worth it, in the end, I think."

Harry grinned. "Thank you Remus!"

The man smiled kindly. "Not at all, Harry. I'm honoured that you showed this to me first. I'm surprised you didn't go to Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick with this, though."

"Well...I wasn't really planning on asking anyone...it just kind of came up..."

"And you thought it might help steer our conversation away from the boggart," Remus stated.

Harry blushed. "You...um...caught that?"

Remus chuckled. "You may not be wearing your tie and robe, Harry, but I've not forgotten that you are, in fact, a Slytherin. I thought you might try something like this."

"...oh."

"I dated a Slytherin, once," Remus commented, "I've seen all the tricks."

"...oh."

"Now...I suppose you noticed that I deliberately kept you from facing the boggart today."

"Yes sir."

Remus quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes Remus."

The man chuckled. "It would appear I was correct in my judgment."

"And...what exactly was your judgment?"

Remus sighed. "You have faced Voldemort twice in your short life, Harry – experiences like that leave a mark on a person...and these are the kinds of marks that boggarts exploit. I didn't think it appropriate to expose your classmates to this – not many children your age have the strength to deal with what you have."

Harry nodded slowly. "Remus...about my boggart..."

The man shook his head. "You do not owe me any explanations, Harry. If you want to talk, I will always be here...but don't feel the need to put me at ease or explain away what I saw. It was very private – that much was obvious, and it's not my place to intrude where I'm not wanted."

Again, Harry felt that warm feeling in his chest, and he found himself greatly appreciating Remus's respectful attitude. He was silent for a moment, before he resolved to ask, "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"When you saw my boggart...well...what exactly did you think you saw?"

Remus took another sip of his tea. "I saw confusion. I saw a boy who was afraid of something truly terrifying, afraid of the fear he felt, and afraid of becoming what he feared."

Harry shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "And that doesn't bother you?"

"What doesn't bother me?"

"That I...I'm afraid of becoming Voldemort."

Remus smiled sadly. "On the contrary, Harry. I think it's admirable."

Harry looked up at him, shocked. "What?"

"It means that you're mature enough to understand the similarities between you and he, and that despite those similarities, you want to be a good person. And that's very admirable indeed."

Something twisted deep within Harry, and he realized that he was now hearing something he'd been longing to hear for a very long time.

"Thank you, Remus," he said quietly, unable to completely keep the wonderment out of his voice.

The man chuckled again. "You shouldn't thank me for telling the truth, Harry. And on that note, you should know, that even though you share your ability to speak with snakes, the similarities seem to end there."

Harry could sense Tom's amusement.

He gave Remus a nervous smile. "About that...I assume, since I haven't been summoned to the Headmaster's office, that you didn't say anything about my...ability."

"I said I wouldn't," Remus commented.

"I know, I just...thanks."

Remus smiled sadly. "I know what it's like, Harry, to be blamed for something you never asked for. I would never wish that on anyone."

Harry frowned slightly, caught off-guard by the sincere, empathetic answer.

"Now, before I send you off, do you have any questions, or are we good?"

"Actually, Remus, there is one thing..."

"Oh?"

"The dementors, sir...they're going to be here at the school for a while, aren't they?"

Remus sighed. "It would seem so. They haven't given you anymore trouble, have they?"

"No...but they might, so I was wondering...is there...any chance...you might be able to teach me? The _patronus_ charm, I mean."

Remus quirked an eyebrow. "That's very advanced magic, Harry. NEWT level, at least."

Harry nodded. "I know...but I don't want to be caught off guard again...it was...horrible. Really horrible. I felt helpless. There was nothing I could have done, and if you hadn't shown up..."

Remus sighed and nodded. "Well," he gave a weak smile, "I suppose that if any third year could learn the _patronus_ charm, it would be you."

Harry felt his cheeks heat up, a bit.

"Wednesday nights at seven – does that work for you?"

Harry's eyes widened. "Oh, yes! Of course! Thank you, Remus!"

The man smiled. "Just doing my job, Harry. Now! You really must be going back to bed. I trust you can find your way back to the dungeons."

Harry nodded, rising to his feet.

"It goes without saying, I suppose, that you should use your invisibility cloak – wouldn't want someone else catching you awake."

Harry didn't ask how he knew about his invisibility cloak, but he stored that fact away for later reference. "Yes, Remus."

"Excellent. Goodnight, Harry."

Harry smiled. "Goodnight."

"Oh, and Harry," Remus said just as he was stepping out the door. "Five points from Slytherin, for wandering around after curfew."

Harry winced.

"But take five points for facing the boggart...and another ten for some excellent spell-crafting."

Harry stifled a grin. "Thank you, sir. Er, Remus."

* * *

And there we go! What did you think?


	45. Collecting Clues

**Disclaimer:** Same as last week.

 **AN:** Hey, so I know I just got back, and in all honesty, this probably won't be a problem, but I'm currently doing an experiment, and if it goes wrong, I could be hospitalized. I am diagnosed with an illness I might not have, and getting my case re-examined entails coming off one of my medications. I don't want any of you to worry, because I'm doing this under supervision and I have several plans in place to keep my health under control. What's likely to happen is that I won't feel great and I will spend even more time writing than I usually do, but I wanted to let you know that if I miss a week it's for a good reason. As I said, it almost certainly won't be a problem, but I care about you guys and I don't want you to think I've abandoned you if something happens :)

To compensate for that depressing AN, here's a super long chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter 45: Collecting Clues**

"But I want to say hi."

 _That is because you are a maudlin fool._

"That's not very nice."

Harry was currently wandering around in the Chamber of Secrets, Tom's diadem in his hand.

"Maybe she could help us out," Harry suggested, "I mean, she probably knows the Chamber better than anyone."

 _Which will not matter if she eats you._

"But I'm a parselmouth!"

 _That does not mean she will listen to you. I know not whether she will obey you while her other master still lives, nor if she will obey one who does not have Slytherin's blood running through his veins._

"But -"

 _Cease your undignified pleading at once. It is not worth the risk. Besides, once you meet her, you will start complaining to me about how she is all alone, and how she needs company, and then you will start coming down here to talk to her because you don't want her to be lonely, and eventually someone will follow you here and expose our secret, putting both you and the diadem at risk._

Harry's eyebrows rose. "You've really thought this through."

 _Not at all. You are just hopelessly predictable._

Harry sighed, before perking up. "Oh, look! That looks promising!" He ran over to a small alcove to his left, pleased to find a wooden door before him.

" _Alohomora."_

Inside, he found a small, barren room, populated only by a few bookshelves. He squinted in the dim lighting.

" _Lumos."_

The shelves were of stone, carved into the walls, and the books populating them were few, but excitement welled up in Harry's chest nonetheless. Trotting over, he opened one of the books, but frowned when a couple of pages fell out as he opened them. He was very disappointed to find that inside the book was only some poorly drawn diagrams and gibberish.

 _Old English_ , Tom supplied.

Harry huffed. "Can you read it?"

 _I never had the time, nor motivation, to learn a dead language._

"But you know some Latin."

 _Latin is only a dead language in the muggle world,_ Tom pointed out impatiently.

"Fair enough. Is this a good enough place to hide the diadem?"

Tom hesitated. _Yes._

Harry nodded and placed the diadem on one of the shelves, behind a pile of dilapidated old books. Nodding to himself, he looked down at his watch.

 _8:56_

He blanched. "Potions in four minutes."

He could feel Tom's amusement. _Better run._

He did just that, and arrived in the classroom thirty-three seconds before class was to start.

Professor Snape glared at him when he entered the room. "Cutting it close, Potter," he said nastily.

Harry cringed as he walked over to his and Theo's brewing station. "Sorry sir."

Professor Snape ignored him. "Today we will be brewing the fever reduction potion. The instructions are in your textbook – page twenty-seven."

"Where were you?" Theo whispered to him.

Harry hesitated. "The Chamber of Secrets."

Theo dropped his paring knife and gaped at him. "What were you doing down there?"

Harry shrugged. "Just exploring, mostly." He placed his potions kit on the table and began pulling ingredients out.

"Isn't...that...you know...dangerous?"

Harry shrugged again, and began mincing toad eyes. "A little. I probably won't go down again. I was just curious to see what it was like without having the risk of dying hanging over my head."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Fair enough."

"But don't worry," Harry said hurriedly, "I wasn't doing anything really risky. I didn't break my promise -"

"It's fine, Harry, really."

Harry sighed in relief.

During the two hour span of their lesson, Harry and Theo chatted at broken intervals, Hermione got viciously scolded for trying to help Neville with his potion, and Finnigan and Thomas got smacked over the head at least three times. In other words, it was just like any other class, right up until after their potions were graded.

"Slytherins, stay behind. I will be collecting your Hogsmeade permission forms."

Grinning a little bit at each other, Theo and Harry, who was at this point ignoring a steadily growing headache -

 _...the insufferable children; look at their revoltingly invigorated - what are you doing? Harry, remember, we already discussed this. Why you still have that form is - no, sit down. We are_ not _going to Hogsmeade. Harry. Sit down at once. Harry. You will regret this, Harry. Do not forget, I have ways to stop you from - Harry! Sit. Down. This is non-negotiable. Do you_ want _to die an agonizing death at the hands of a stray dementor? Your performance with the_ patronus _charm has been unsatisfactory at best -_

 _-_ lined up behind Draco.

When it was his turn to hand in his form, he was surprised when Professor Snape refused to take it.

"Sir?"

"Keep it, Potter. You're not going to Hogsmeade."

In the corner of his eye, Harry saw Theo's mouth drop open.

"Sir, there's a signature right -"

"I don't care, Potter," Professor Snape hissed, "You're not going."

 _How convenient._ Tom sounded quite smug, and the headache subsided.

Harry frowned. "Is this because of Sirius Black, sir?"

 _What do you think, Harry?_ Tom drawled patronizingly, his mood still decidedly lifted.

Meanwhile, Professor Snape merely fixed him with a very unimpressed glare. "Dismissed."

Harry sighed, and went to follow after Theo and Draco.

"That's completely unfair," Theo said angrily, "Everyone's going."

"And after all the effort I put into threatening Uncle Vernon into signing it for me..." Harry sighed again. "They're worried Sirius Black is after me, I expect. Nothing to be done about it..."

"Still though," Draco said, "Awfully cruel of them if you ask me. You know, if I told my father -"

Harry smiled weakly, feeling quite disappointed (despite the distinct feeling of satisfaction emanating from Tom's presence). "It's ok, Draco. I'll be fine, just...bring me something back, will you?"

The rest of the day flew by quickly, as Wednesdays often did, and in no time, Harry found himself knocking on the door to Remus's office.

Harry had come to look forward to Wednesdays, for more reasons than one. There was the obvious reason - he was learning magic. But not just any magic - a magic the likes of which he'd never felt flowing through his finger tips; a magic that seemed to bury deep inside him and tug and tug until this feeling flowed from that point like a rushing river until it just - it just stopped; no, not stopped...it stilled. He would find himself floating, but not adrift; belonging and freed from cause and care by tranquility. Magic had always felt natural to him, but this magic...it was him, but he felt like it was a part of him that was always hidden, always buried; a part of him that was too essential to be completely natural.

Did any of that make sense? It had better, because he'd spent hours thinking about it.

He'd asked Tom about the strange feeling, but ended up tripping over his explanation, and found himself giving up before the end, after which Tom made it quite clear to him that he thought his mental stability was 'tenuous at best'. At that point Harry decided that he'd figure it out on his own. Somehow. Eventually.

Meanwhile, reveling in strange new sensations aside, Harry was quite enjoying learning what other things Remus had to teach him; a few weeks into September, he had managed to glean from Remus why he knew about Harry's invisibility cloak – Remus had been a close friend of his parents', and had some personal experience sneaking around Hogwarts under the same invisibility cloak. They all went to Hogwarts together; same house, same year. Apparently, Remus had known his father ever since their first day at Hogwarts, and remained good friends until...well, you know.

So, basically, Remus was really a library of interesting magic and memories of his parents, and happened to be a lot more agreeable than the Hogwarts library, which still seemed to be intent on thwarting his every attempt to learn about soul magic.

"Ah, Harry come in. Right on time, as usual."

Harry nodded with a small smile and stepped into the office, glancing at the large covered cage sitting in the corner.

"How're the arithmancy problem sets coming along?"

"Quite smoothly...I don't think I should have any problems finishing on time."

"Glad to hear it." Remus frowned. "You're looking a bit down, Harry."

Harry sighed. "I'm not allowed to go to Hogsmeade...with Sirius Black around and everything..."

Remus looked at him sympathetically. "They'll catch Si-Black eventually, Harry, and then there will be many more trips to Hogsmeade for you to enjoy."

Harry smiled weakly.

"Now, why don't we get started immediately? I think we can get right to it – you were quite successful last time."

Harry grimaced - successful was a generous way of putting it - but then nodded determinedly, bracing himself as Remus pulled a large trunk out of the corner.

Seeing as one of the forms the boggart took when it first met Harry was a dementor, Remus figured that if Harry focused on his fear of dementors - on his helpless, agonizing first encounter with them - and not his own confusion over what he should be scared of, the boggart would take the form of a dementor instead of, say, Voldemort. He had been right, and Harry had been practising his _patronus_ charm on said boggart since September.

The hardest part about learning the _patronus_ charm was thinking up a memory happy enough to fuel the charm. At first Harry thought of things like the first time he saw Hogwarts, or when he rode a broom or caught the Snitch for the first time, or the few times Tom had praised him. He tried thinking about his friends. And they all worked...to some degree. The problem was that none of them worked well enough. Not well enough to cast anything substantial. It was discouraging, to say the least. But then Remus asked this one question.

"What does it mean to be happy? Think about the feeling. Now ask yourself, is there anything you'd rather feel? If what you perceive as happiness isn't enough, look for something even purer than happiness inside you."

So Harry found something he valued even more than happiness – peace; belonging. He thought of the first time he cast a spell; of his first visit to Godric's Hollow, to the Potter Cottage and his parents' grave; of floating, of water...cold, tranquil water.

And it worked.

"Ready?"

"Yep."

"Alright then. One – two – three!"

And with that Remus flung the lid of the trunk open, and immediately a dementor emerged, grey, looming, and ominous.

" _Expecto Patronum_!"

Only a light mist was emitted from his wand.

He grit his teeth. " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

The mist grew and thickened, until it had formed a shield that engulfed the dementor, forcing it back further and further, until -

 _"Riddikulus!"_

Crack!

The dementor disappeared, and Harry bent over, breathing heavily as Remus forced the boggart back into the trunk.

"Excellent work, Harry! You did it even faster than last time!"

Harry shook his head on reflex. "No...no...not good enough..." He grit his teeth again. "Why can't I do it?"

"It's a difficult spell, Harry. I've not known many witches and wizards who could manage it."

Harry straightened himself, staring closely at Remus. "Could my parents manage it?"

Remus didn't seem surprised by the question. "They both did, yes. I'm not sure how long it took Lily, but James and I learnt it together - it took us several long months of practice to get it right."

Harry nodded slowly, contemplatively. "What was his _patronus_ \- my dad's, I mean."

Remus seemed to hesitate. "A stag, just like his animagus form. My understanding is that they usually coincide."

Harry's gaze drifted out the window. "Stags are...proud, majestic...dexterous...wild...is that what my dad was like?"

Remus nodded, a wistful look on his face. "Yes, that describes James quite well indeed."

Harry pursed his lips. "But that's not me at all." He huffed. "It occurred to me that achieving a corporeal _patronus_ might be easier if I knew what the _patronus_ was in the first place, but every time I try to come up with something that describes me as a person, it's...utterly unconvincing."

Remus looked at him thoughtfully. "Well perhaps that's your problem, Harry. You're overthinking it. The _patronus_ charm isn't like most of the other spells you learn - the point of it isn't to accomplish something."

Harry frowned. "Then what _is_ the point?"

"Well that's the thing - there isn't one. The _patronus_ charm is an expression - an expression of your soul and your magic. You said to me a couple of weeks back that you felt something strange when you tried to cast the charm, that you were trying to figure out what it was."

Harry nodded.

"Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you should just let yourself feel it, and do nothing more. Don't chase it down - let it come to you."

Harry nodded again, very slowly. "Okay...alright...I think I can do that."

Remus smiled at him. "Ready to try again?"

Harry nodded, this time determinedly. "I think so."

"Excellent! Now, I think we'll try this time without the boggart."

"But -"

"Trust me, Harry."

Harry stared at Remus, at his kind, open face, and considered his words.

"Fine," he relented. He had no reason to believe that Remus didn't know what he was doing.

Remus patted him on the shoulder. "Whenever you're ready."

Harry sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled very slowly as a single thought rushed through his mind.

 _Expecto Patronum...Expecto Patronum...Expecto Patronum..._

The feeling stirred inside him, that floating feeling, that quiet euphoria.

 _"Expecto Patronum!"_

Mist erupted from his wand, thick and luminous, swirling in the air. The feeling intensified, and he could feel it penetrating his heart and flowing through his veins.

 _"Expecto Patronum!"_

It swirled, and began to take shape. The feeling was there at the tip of his fingers; all he had to do was reach out and take it -

No. No. He wasn't going to take it. He wasn't going to chase it. Because in that moment, he was happy, and he knew that for a moment - just one moment - he could relinquish control.

 _"Expecto PATRONUM!"_

It consumed him, like a warm embrace; that feeling of being _there_ , of _belonging;_ he was present, he was alive, and that moment was his, even as he gave himself over to it - and in that moment, a brilliant light, ethereal yet substantial, erupted from his wand.

And a moment later, a shimmering white owl was soaring around the room, broad wings flapping gracefully as it circled above their heads.

It circled the room once, twice, thrice, four times -

Harry's entire body shuddered and suddenly, he was ripped out of the embrace, and in an instant found himself feeling so terribly cold, and alone, and terrified. He felt...like he was about to die. A moment later the room was flooded with black until nothing but a formless void remained, silent and lonely...but then he heard a wet, slapping sound behind him; light footsteps, slowly approaching -

"Harry! Harry -"

His eyes snapped open and he gasped for air. He was on the floor, he realized, and Remus was kneeling over him, his usually gentle hands gripping Harry's shoulders like a vice.

"What...what happened?"

Upon hearing his voice, Remus let go, and sighed, a great deal of tension draining out of his posture. "I'm not entirely sure," he said quietly. "You cast the charm - perfectly, I might add - but then you just...well, you collapsed. I've been trying to wake you for about a minute now."

Harry released a shuddering breath, and sat up slowly, surprised to find that he wasn't sore at all. "Is that - does it - has this ever happened to you?"

Remus shook his head. "I've never heard of anything of the sort. What happened, if I may ask? How did you feel right before you collapsed?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but then paused, realizing he had no idea what had actually happened; he'd felt fine - amazing, actually - until it just...what? It just, stopped? "I, um, great, actually. I have no idea what happened."

Remus pursed his lips. "Do you feel...drained? Like your magic has run dry?"

Harry frowned. "I'm not tired at all, actually. I feel like I could run around the lake a few times and then cast every charm in my Charms textbook."

Remus's eyebrows shot up. "Well, that pretty much nullifies my magical exhaustion theory. Either way, we should probably get you to Madame Pomfrey -"

Harry shook his head quickly. "No, no - not the Hospital Wing. Knowing Madame Pomfrey she'll keep me there all night and maybe even the morning 'for observation' or something stupid like that."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Have a bit of experience with that, do you?"

Harry grimaced. "There've been some...incidents."

Remus chuckled weakly. "So I've heard." He stood up, wincing a bit as he straightened his back. "Need a hand?"

"I'm fine."

"How do you feel?"

"A bit dizzy, standing up, but other than that...I really do feel fine."

Remus nodded slowly, and walked over to his desk and picked up a tea cup.

 _"Aguamenti."_ He turned to Harry, "Here, drink."

Harry took the cup and gulped the water down quickly. "Thanks."

Remus smiled. "Don't mention it." He placed the cup back on his desk. "Losing consciousness aside, that was some very fine casting, Harry, very fine indeed."

Harry grinned. "I finally got it! Let's try again, this time with the dementor! Er, boggart..."

Remus quirked an eyebrow. "I'd say that's enough for today."

"But -"

"You did well, Harry," Remus interrupted softly. "You did really, really well. So rest, recuperate, and we'll try again next week, alright?"

Harry sighed. He supposed that was reasonable. "Alright." He tried not to sound too disappointed.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Harry nodded. "Sorry for the trouble."

Remus smiled. "No trouble at all. Now would you like to sit here for a while?"

"I'll be fine."

"Are you sure there's nothing you need?"

Harry was about to shake his head, when he froze, an odd thought coming to the forefront of his mind. It was probably inappropriate to ask, but he really couldn't help himself...

"Actually, yes – I couldn't help but notice earlier, when you said Sirius Black's name, you corrected yourself – you stopped yourself from saying his first name...it was almost like like you were trying to...distance yourself from him, calling him Black instead of Sirius Black, or perhaps just Sirius; but that would only be necessary if you felt close to him in the first place. Did you know him?" Harry paused. "Did...my parents know him?"

Remus opened his mouth, and then closed it a moment later, looking quite baffled. "You're wondering...if Sirius Black knew your parents."

"That's right."

Remus still looked a bit bemused, but a moment later sighed, a resigned look appearing on his face. "Sometimes, Harry, you remind me very much of your mother...she was very perceptive for her age as well."

"That doesn't answer my question," Harry pointed out.

"No, indeed it does not. Yes, I did know Sirius Black, as did your parents – we all went to Hogwarts together."

"Were you...close? Is that why Sirius Black knew where my parents were hiding?"

Remus closed his eyes, a look reminiscent of pain washing over his face. "Yes...that's right. Sirius Black met your father and I on our first day at Hogwarts, on the Hogwarts Express. We were all sorted into Gryffindor together, along with our friend Peter Pettigrew."

Harry's eyes widened. "Wasn't that -?"

"The man Sirius Black killed?" Remus interjected, voice wry but tainted with sorrow. "Yes. The four of us..." Remus paused, taking a breath, "We were the best of friends. And now...I'm the only one left."

The words sounded extremely heavy in Harry's ears, and he felt a sinking feeling inside him.

He nodded slowly; even as he noted the unnerved feeling he got when Remus said those words, his mind suddenly erupted with a flurry of thoughts. He tried not to smile. "Thanks for telling me that, Remus."

"Not at all Harry, you deserve to know."

After a short exchange, Harry left, stifling a grin. If Remus knew Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black, perhaps he knew of Pettigrew's animagus form...and perhaps he would finally be able to put his plan into effect.

Finally, he could do some proper scheming, he thought to himself as he marched purposefully down the corridor, feeling especially unaffected, calm, and in control, having forgotten how it felt to relinquish it.

* * *

"I'll keep your secrets if you'll keep mine."

It was the Thursday before Halloween, and Harry and the Order were once again meeting to practice their duelling skills and target practice. These sessions were starting to last longer and longer as his friends improved, and they were likewise becoming more and more fun. Harry found himself spending more time than ever in scouring _Magick Moste Evile_ for curses he could teach his friends, who were becoming more adept with casting dark magic with every passing week.

Tom was pleased with his research, so long as Harry prioritized his search for information on soul magic...which ultimately turned out to be a failure. He found one book on the magic of will and spirituality which mentioned the soul a few times in the introduction – _Über den Geist_ \- but it was in German, so he was currently trying to teach himself enough that he could translate at least somewhat successfully.

As it turned out, despite being a natural with parseltongue, Harry did not have a talent for languages.

"Are we going to say that every time we meet?" Draco asked with a raised eyebrow.

"It's important," Harry said, "Besides, it kind of gets us in the mood, doesn't it?"

Draco's eyebrow didn't budge.

"Anyway," Harry continued, "We should begin immediately. I fell asleep while I was writing my history essay and spilled ink all over it -"

Theo snickered and Hermione looked at him disapprovingly.

"- so I need to leave early to rewrite that. Theo, you and Hermione can practice, and I'll be with Draco again."

"Or," Theo said, "Hermione can teach Draco spells today, and you and I can duel, like old times."

Harry looked at Hermione and Draco, who were eyeing each other blankly, gazes tinted with distaste.

Usually, the members of the Order of the Midnight Sun got on quite well, to Harry's relief; however, there were times when two particular members butted heads so to speak, like yesterday in particular, when Draco made a point of mocking Hermione after Charms for her long-winded answer which Professor Flitwick had been forced to cut short.

If Harry was going to be entirely blunt about it, he would admit that Draco was a spoiled brat and Hermione was a self-righteous know-it-all. Both had improved immensely since he'd met them...but Draco was still Draco, and Hermione still Hermione. Some friction was inevitable, he supposed.

Finally, Hermione sighed. "I'd be happy to help Draco."

Draco only looked at her with a quirked eyebrow.

Harry grinned. "Alright then. You and I, Theo."

Theo grinned back at him. "Just like old times."

Hermione looked at them sternly. " _Don't_ blow each other up."

Draco smirked. "Yeah, even my best healing potions won't do anything for lost limbs."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll be careful," Theo said dismissively.

Hermione rolled her eyes and walked off with Draco in tow.

"Terms?" Harry asked.

"Wordless," Theo said, "And the loser has to cover Honeydukes."

Harry sobered at that. "I'm not going to Hogsmeade, Theo."

Theo sighed, dejected. "Right. I forgot."

Harry shrugged. "It doesn't really matter, in the end, though. I don't know why you always insist on making bets when you lose every time."

"Shh!" Theo exclaimed. "I didn't hear that."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine. On my count, then."

Theo nodded.

"One – two – three!"

Harry immediately shot off an _expelliarmus_ which Theo dodged, returning the same spell, against which Harry erected a wordless shielding charm.

He had set himself a challenge in September. He was going to try to emulate Tom, and not move except to turn left and right during the duel (well, except maybe to saunter haughtily forward or something like that). It had been easy enough with Draco, but with Theo...it might prove a challenge.

Theo sent a stunning charm his way, along with _bombarda._

Harry deflected the two charms easily, before casting his own spells

 _Expulso!_

 _Exacuere!_

Theo threw himself behind a column, and a moment later emerged with a leap, sending the disarming charm Harry's way.

They continued their sparring for a few minutes (spells growing progressively darker as they did...inevitably, because they started with _expelliarmus_ ), until Harry got a very amusing idea.

 _Reducto!_

The spell slipped past Theo and hit a column, disintegrating the marble side.

 _Oppugno!_

The dust on the ground rose up in a swirl and attacked Theo in the face, causing the boy to start coughing, shutting his eyes to keep the dust out.

 _Expelliarmus!_

Theo's wand in hand, Harry could not help the little grin that played on his face as he walked over to Theo, dispelling the cloud of dust with a wave of his hand.

"So close," Theo moaned as he collapsed onto the floor.

Harry raised an eyebrow, sitting down beside him and handing his wand back. "If you say so."

"Shut up."

Harry chuckled. "Ok."

"I don't hear you shutting up."

"You wouldn't."

Theo laughed.

"Although, that implies that you don't hear an absence of sound - that hearing is a purely positive experience - which is making a bit of an assumption about the word."

Theo rolled his eyes as he glanced across the room to where Hermione was assisting Draco with his reductor curse.

"Who would have thought it?" he commented, "Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, working together to learn the dark arts."

Harry smiled. "It's nice, isn't it? Bringing people together."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "I guess. So, I guess I owe you a lot of chocolate then?"

"Apparently. You're the one who made the bet. You really should be keeping track of these things."

"Yes, well, not everyone is secure enough in their masculinity to keep a diary," Theo joked

Harry laughed. "Fair enough."

They both fell silent as they watched Hermione demonstrate the reductor curse in such a way that it was obvious that she was showing off.

"It's such bullshit," Theo said suddenly, "The Hogsmeade thing."

Harry shrugged. "They're afraid Sirius Black will do something."

"No, that's not what I mean - it's the way the professors make all these decisions for you, but don't even bother talking to you about it. Has anyone actually _told you_ that Sirius Black might be after you? Have any of the teachers talked to you at all?"

"No," Harry said as though it was obvious.

"This is what I mean!"

Harry shrugged again. "They're adults. That's what adults do."

"Bloody adults."

Harry chuckled.

"No, seriously, if I ever end up like that, hex me."

"I'll make a note of it in my diary."

Theo laughed. "What? 'October 28th – remember to hex Theo if he ever starts acting like a bloody adult'?"

"Something to that effect, I imagine. It'll fit right in."

Theo raised an eyebrow, bemused. "How d'you mean?"

"I've got a few oaths stored in there now – the three we made at the beginning of last year, the one I had Draco, Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle sign, the one I had Ginny Weasley sign, another for Draco – and it's where I put all the spells I want to learn. It's kind of like a...book of promises, you know?"

Theo raised an eyebrow. "That's actually kind of ominous sounding. Harry Potter's Book of Promises."

Harry grinned a little. "I like it. I should start collecting."

"You're so weird."

Harry's grin widened. "That's why you like me so much," he said matter-of-factly.

Theo rolled his eyes. "Among other things."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Well, it's rather satisfying being the only person that knows that underneath all your _supposed_ genius you're just a big idiot who doesn't know how to feed himself properly."

"Fair enough."

Theo smirked, frowning a moment later. "It'll be no fun without you."

"What'll be no fun?"

"Hogsmeade!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't lie, Theo, you'll still have fun. Just don't forget to get me my share from Honeydukes, or I'll curse you."

"Of course, supreme leader."

Harry laughed, a little awkwardly. He always felt a little troubled when his friends actually referred to him as the leader - despite the fact that they'd pretty much unanimously agreed on it - because he never knew just how serious they were being.

"Well, hopefully they catch Sirius Black soon – then we can all get on with our lives. D'you reckon the dementors would suck his soul out right here at Hogwarts?"

Harry's uneasy grin turned into a frown. "I hope not."

"What? Why?"

"I...I think I might like to meet him."

Theo's eyes bugged out. "Why would you want to do a thing like that? He's -" his voiced dropped to a hesitant whisper "- the reason your parents are dead."

Harry pursed his lips. "He was their friend, you know? They went to Hogwarts together."

Theo gaped. "How do you know that?"

"Professor Lupin...they were all friends, you see – him, my dad, and Sirius Black."

"Seriously?"

Harry nodded.

"Slacking off?" Draco asked with a raised eyebrow as he and Hermione walked over to them.

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Sirius Black."

Hermione frowned. "You shouldn't dwell on it, Harry. It's not healthy."

Harry shrugged. "I can't help it. I have a lot of questions. He was a friend of my parents, you know...Professor Lupin told me. It sounded like they were quite close too."

Draco's eyes widened, and Hermione looked at him with pity. "Oh Harry..."

"I just...wish I could talk to him. I wish I could know why he did it."

Hemione sighed. "Well, maybe...you could access the court records somehow? I'm sure something like that would have come up in his trial."

"There wasn't one."

Draco's eyes widened even further, and Theo's mouth dropped open once again. Hermione looked outraged.

"What do you mean, there wasn't one!?"

Harry looked at her oddly. "I mean that there was no trial. They just shipped him off to Azkaban as soon as they caught him. It wasn't all that uncommon at the time. Before Lord Voldemort was defeated in 1981, and even for a while afterward, a kind of martial law was in place; people suspected being Death Eaters with reasonable certainty were sometimes imprisoned without a trial, and aurors were free to kill them whenever they felt it necessary."

"But that – that – that's criminal!"

"Bloody Ministry," Theo breathed out, "They really _can_ get away with anything."

Draco nodded. "I can attest to that."

Everyone looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"No! I mean – oh, nevermind."

Harry, Theo, and Hermione chuckled at that.

"Shut up!"

"Oh!" Hermione suddenly said. "On a happier note, I had a dream last night, a really vivid one!"

Harry's eyes brightened. "About your animagus form?"

Hermione nodded.

"That's funny," Harry commented, "Because I did too. You, Theo?"

"Ok, that's just plain weird. I had a dream as well."

"It's actually not that odd," Draco commented, "They're stimulated by the potion, right? You all started taking it at the same time, in the same doses."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose that does make sense. Anyway! Who wants to go first?"

"You better go first," Theo said, "You look like you might burst at any moment now."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'm a cat. I'm ninety percent sure I'm a cat."

Theo grinned. "Just like Professor McGonagall."

Hermione looked thoughtful at that. "Yes, I suppose so. What did _you_ get?"

Theo frowned. "Some sort of dog, I think. I have brown and black fur. It's kind of long and coarse."

"Did you get a look at the face?" Hermione asked.

Theo nodded slowly. "Not that it helped. I have no idea what breed it is."

Hermione smiled. "Don't worry about that – I was planning on buying a book on cat breeds over Christmas break – I can bring one on dog breeds as well."

"Wow - thanks, Hermione."

Her smile grew, before she turned to Harry. "And what about you? Did you figure out whether you were climbing or flying?"

Harry grinned. "I'm an owl."

His friends stared at him in surprise.

"An owl?" Draco asked incredulously.

Harry nodded eagerly. "Not sure what sort yet - I saw my shadow and heard myself hoot, but that's it. But it's perfect, isn't it? I could fly anywhere completely undetected – people would just think I'm delivering post."

Hermione's eyes were wide. "Excellent! That's brilliant, Harry! It makes sense, of course, that you'd be something that flies."

Harry nodded, still grinning.

"An owl, a dog, and a cat," Theo mused. "What do you suppose you'd be, Draco?"

Draco smirked. "A dragon, of course."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There's no such thing as a dragon animagus."

"There are exceptions to every rule," Draco said defensively.

Hermione scoffed at him. "If anyone was going to be the exception, it would have been Harry."

"Why's that?" Draco said sourly.

"Because _Harry's_ exceptional. You're not."

Harry blushed, and Draco opened his mouth to snap at her, before Theo interrupted.

"Well, I think you'd be a rabbit," he said decisively.

Draco looked outraged. "A bloody rabbit!?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Yes, I think I can see it – a little fluffy white one."

Hermione smirked. "We could name you Thumper, or Floppy, or – ooh! Snowbell."

Harry and Theo burst out laughing.

"I hate all of you. Especially you, Granger. I hate you the most."

For some reason or another, Hermione looked immensely pleased by that statement.

* * *

"Sir, may I ask where Professor Lupin is?"

Professor Snape sneered at him. "No you may not, Potter. Now, as I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far -"

"Please, sir, we've done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, and grindylows," Hermione put in quickly, "and we're just about to start -"

"Be quiet," Professor Snape said coldly. "I did not ask for information. I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin's lack of organization."

"He's the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had," Dean Thomas asserted boldly, and there was a murmur of agreement amongst the Gryffindors. Everyone else was to smart enough not to show their assent.

Meanwhile, Professor Snape looked more menacing than ever.

"You are easily satisfied. Lupin is hardly overtaxing you - I would expect first years to be able to deal with Red Caps and grindylows. Today we shall discuss -"

Harry watched him flick through the textbook, to the very last chapter, which he had to have known they hadn't covered.

"- werewolves," Professor Snape finished.

Harry blinked. Why would Professor Snape be so keen on teaching them about werewolves? Well really, the question was, did he choose the chapter because it was in the back of the book, or because it was about werewolves?

"But, sir," Hermione said with a frown, seemingly unable to restrain herself, "We're not supposed to do werewolves yet, we're due to start hinkypunks -"

"Miss Granger," said Professor Snape in a voice of deadly calm, "I was under the impression that I am teaching this lesson, not you. Five points from Gryffindor. And I am telling you all to turn to page 394." He glanced around again. "All of you! Now!"

Everyone looked quite startled and immediately flipped through their books...well, almost everyone. The Gryffindors looked quite sullen and went through the whole affair very grudgingly.

"Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?" Professor Snape said, in a drawling tone that suggested he really wasn't expecting an answer.

Everyone sat in motionless silence; everyone except Hermione, whose hand, as it was wont to do, had shot straight into the air. Harry decided to refrain from volunteering, seeing as he'd already been snapped at, and wasn't really in the mood for more.

"Anyone?" Professor Snape prodded, pointedly ignoring Hermione. His twisted smile was back. "Well, well, well, I never thought I'd meet a third-year class who wouldn't even recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind you all are..."

"Please, sir," Hermione blurted out, "The werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout of the werewolf -"

"That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger," Professor Snape hissed. "Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all."

Hermione, who was not used to losing points anywhere but potions, gaped for a moment before he cheeks turned bright red, and she looked down at her hands, her face somewhere between embarrassed, ashamed, and angry.

Ron Weasley, who was sitting beside Hermione, adopted a furious look on his face. "You asked us a question and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don't want to be told?"

Everyone in the the class knew instantly he'd gone too far. Professor Snape advanced on Ron slowly, and even Harry was holding his breath now.

"Detention, Weasley, with me," Professor Snape said silkily, his face extraordinarily close to Ron's. "And if I ever hear you criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed."

No one made a sound throughout the rest of the lesson. They sat and made notes on werewolves from the textbook, while Snape prowled up and down the rows of desks, examining the work they had been doing with Professor Lupin, criticizing every detail remotely able to be twisted into something negative.

When the bell rang at last, Snape held them back.

"You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning. It is time somebody took this class in hand. Weasley, stay behind, we need to arrange your detention."

"Well that was...weird," Theo said as they left the classroom.

Harry nodded absently, still puzzled by Professor Snape's behaviour. He turned to Hermione. "Are you alright?"

She sniffled a little. "It shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did," she said quietly.

Harry shook his head. "He was out of line, Hermione."

She smiled weakly.

* * *

"Professor Lupin! Feeling better?"

Remus spun around to find Harry behind him. He smiled weakly. "Did someone tell you I wasn't well?"

"I inferred it," Harry asserted, "After you missed our last Defence lesson."

Remus looked a little sheepish. "I _was_ feeling a bit under the weather, but I'm doing much better now. How are you?"

Harry shrugged. "Just trying to pretend like it's a normal day. You know, not a day where all my friends are off buying candy and having a good time while I'm stuck behind due to the fact that everyone seems to think that _supposedly_ an escaped convict who's purportedly half mad might be trying to kill me, because apparently getting my parents killed wasn't enough for him."

Remus let out a quiet chuckle. "It's one of those days, is it?"

"Unfortunately."

"Might a cup of tea help your pretending along a bit?"

Harry offered him half a smile in return. "Do you have time?"

"For you, Harry? Always."

A few minutes later, Harry found himself sitting in a very familiar office, sipping a cup of orange pekoe tea.

"Do you drink a lot of tea, Remus?" he found himself asking idly.

Remus quirked an eyebrow. "Yes, I suppose I do."

"Did my parents drink a lot of tea?"

Remus paused. "James was a coffee drinker. Lily favoured herbal teas, if I remember correctly – though, actually, her favourite was jasmine, I believe. Yes...Jasmine would have been your name, you know, if you had been a girl. Jasmine Rose, was what Lily picked out. James was less than thrilled - he and...Black were quite convinced it was a name suitable for only a woman of an _-ahem_ \- unsightly profession - but Lily insisted."

Harry laughed. "Can you...tell me more about them? My parents, I mean."

Remus looked caught off guard, but only for a moment. "I'd be happy to, Harry. Is there anything in particular you would like to know?"

"Like always...I'll take anything, really."

Remus smiled sadly. "Well...I told you about your father's _patronus_ , right?"

Harry nodded.

"Your mother's...it was a doe. It was almost like fate – a stag and a doe. Of course, no one would have thought so at first."

"Why's that?"

"Oh, for our first six years at Hogwarts, Lily couldn't stand James. To be fair, he was a bit of a prat back then."

Harry grinned, amused. "What sort of a prat?"

"Oh, the worst sort," Remus said humorously.

Harry's eyebrows went up.

"No, not the worst sort," Remus relented, "But to be perfectly honest, he was an immature troublemaker, and Lily simply had no patience for him. She was always so mature – ahead of everyone else. She was brilliant, you know. You remind me a lot of her, which is a compliment, by the way. I admired Lily very much, as did everyone really. Especially James – he just never knew how to show it." He chuckled. "Really, he would always try to get her attention, to compliment and impress her, but he always just ended up offending her. He'd try to challenge her in class, but only ended up making her think he was being an arrogant fool, and whenever he tried to give her things or pay her compliments, she'd accuse him of mocking her. The worst was when he tried to ask her on dates - he some how managed to always make it sound like he was somehow doing her a favour, or at the very least, that she was just playing hard to get. It was quite a sad thing to watch. Pathetic, really."

"So what happened? What changed mum's mind?"

"Well...you have to understand, James was never a...nice boy, but he had a good heart; it was just buried beneath layers of mischief and bad behaviour. So when he finally got it through his head that his rash attempts to assert himself and win Lily's attention weren't getting him anywhere, he finally discovered something you're already quite good at, Harry – self reflection..."

Harry had this feeling that he wasn't quite as good at it as Remus seemed to think.

"...during our last two years at Hogwarts, James put a lot of work into bettering himself as a person, and eventually, your mother noticed this...and in the end, she liked what she saw, I suppose."

"I suppose dad was very relieved."

"Oh yes, as were the rest of us -"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Remus called.

The door opened, and Professor Snape abruptly entered. He was carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes narrowing.

"Ah, Severus," Remus greeted, smiling politely. "Thanks very much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?"

Wordlessly, Professor Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes wandering between Harry and Remus.

"I was just showing Harry my hinkypunks," Remus lied pleasantly, pointing at the cage of sleeping hinkypunks in the corner of his office.

"Fascinating," Professor Snape commented blandly, without looking at it. "You should drink that directly, Lupin."

"Yes, yes, I will," Remus agreed.

"I made an entire cauldronful," Professor Snape continued, voice hollow. "If you need more."

"I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks very much, Severus."

"Not at all," said Professor Snape insincerely, leaving the room as abruptly as he came.

Harry looked curiously at the goblet, while Remus smiled.

"Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me," he explained, "I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex." He picked up the goblet and sniffed it. "Pity sugar makes it useless," he added, taking a sip and shuddering.

"Are you ill?"

"As I said, I've been feeling a bit off-colour," he said. "This potion is the only thing that helps. I am very lucky to be working alongside Professor Snape; there aren't many wizards who are up to making it."

Harry stared closely at the goblet. He hesitated, but in the end decided to risk a guess. "Is it the Wolfsbane Potion?"

Remus choked a bit. "W-what?" he coughed out.

"I couldn't help but notice...Friday, when you were absent, it was a full moon, wasn't it? It is again tonight."

Remus looked immensely startled. "That's quite a leap, Harry."

"Professor Snape took it upon himself to teach us about werewolves in your absence. It was all very suspicious."

Remus stared at Harry, face unreadable. "Of course he did. And...do you suppose anyone else...caught on?"

Harry paused, before shaking his head. "No, I don't think anyone else noticed. I'm pretty sure they thought it was just...Professor Snape being Professor Snape. The chapter on werewolves is the last one in the book, so I'm sure everyone thought he was just choosing that chapter because we definitely wouldn't have covered it yet."

Remus chuckled uneasily. "Well, Harry..."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," Harry said immediately. "You've kept my secrets – the least I can do is keep yours."

Remus's unreadable stare was back. "You're taking this very well, Harry."

"I know what it's like to be blamed for something you never asked for," Harry quoted. "Really I do," he said, recalling his life with the Dursleys. "It seems to me that you're a pretty terrific person, you know. Being a werewolf doesn't change that."

Remus smiled sadly. "You know, your father said very much the same thing, when he found out."

"Did they all know? My dad, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew?"

"They did. They even...well, they even became animagi, just so they could keep me company during the full moons."

Harry perked up at that, and inwardly, he was grinning. This could be his chance to... "What were they?"

"James was a stag," Remus said, eyes distant, "Si-Black was a black dog, and Peter was a grey rat."

Harry let a moment tick by. "A black dog and a grey rat...do you think that's how Sirius Black escaped? By turning into a dog? I'm guessing they weren't registered."

Remus blinked. "Why, yes. That's actually quite plausible. You're right – none of them registered."

"Then no one knew?"

"Lily, but that's it."

"Hmm...it _would_ be a really good way to escape a bad situation, wouldn't it? Turn into an inconspicuous animal. Though I suppose a rat would be best for that."

Remus nodded thoughtfully. "It could come in handy, I imagine."

Harry glanced at some of the books on Remus's desk, trying to seem very casual. "It kind of makes you wonder how many of the spiders, rats, and mice you see around might be witches or wizards in disguise."

Remus chuckled. "You know, you sound just like an old acquaintance of mine - most suspicious bloke I've ever met."

Harry grinned slightly, and let a couple of seconds tick by, before frowning. "You know, I know a grey rat. It's missing one of its front toes."

Remus froze. "...what?"

"Ron Weasley, he has a rat - I met it on the Hogwarts Express. It's been in their family for twelve years...and it's missing one of its front toes."

"Harry...what are you suggesting?"

Harry put a very troubled, thoughtful look on his face. "I...well...Sirius Black never got a trial, you know. Maybe...there's more to the story. Maybe there's someone else who knows what happened that day..."

"You think that Peter's alive," Remus breathed.

"It just occurred to me, when you said that he was a grey rat..."

Remus eyed him shrewdly. "That's another big leap, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe. I don't really know. Like I said, it just occurred to me..."

"Indeed." Remus frowned. "Indeed."

* * *

It was 1 am, and Harry was staring at the stars overhead, which speckled the faint nebulous clouds that veiled the sky. Not the sky – rather, the ceiling of the Great Hall. Harry was lying amidst a sea of purple sleeping bags, just like every other Hogwarts student; they had all been forced to vacate their dorms and sleep in the Great Hall, for their own safety.

"The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle," Professor Dumbledore had said.

Apparently, the Gryffindors had returned to their Common Room only to find it broken into, by none other than Sirius Black.

"It was awful," Hermione told him, "The Fat Lady's portrait was all ripped up. Poor thing was terrified."

"But I don't get it," Theo had whispered once they were told to go to sleep. "You're a Slytherin. Why would he be looking for you in Gryffindor Tower?"

Harry's vague response had been, "Maybe he wasn't looking for me."

That's when they were unceremoniously told to shut their mouths and sleep by Percy Weasley.

So now, Harry was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to Tom talk in his head, frustrated that he couldn't reply, lest he be seen talking to himself.

 _This is perfect. You've planted the seeds of doubt in Lupin's mind, and being the Gryffindor he is, he will seek out Sirius Black - who has now stepped out of hiding - and uncover the truth, and together, they will capture Pettigrew and have Black acquitted. The fact that he knew your father will make it easier for us to gain access to his house elf..._

Yes, things were looking up. The 'plan' was akin to knocking down dominoes - all they'd done is started a chain reaction; a few choice words here and there. Harry found he was quite a fan of this hands-off approach of solving his problems. It was virtually risk free (okay, maybe not risk _free_ ) and he really hadn't done much, but if all went to plan, in no time at all they'd be able to retrieve the locket, and all Tom's horcruxes would be safe and sound.

* * *

Phew! That was a long chapter! Originally the word count was quite modest, but then it just sort of...grew.

Anyway, what did you think? Things are starting to fall together...


	46. Justice

**Disclaimer:** I own no one and nothing. *sad face*

 **AN1:** I confess I've never been through any legal proceedings, so please excuse how unrealistic or fake the last part of this chapter seems.

 **AN2:** Aaaannnd the experiment is over. I wimped out, couldn't handle myself without my meds. So I'm back to being a (mostly) fully functional human being. No hospitalizations in my future!...hopefully...

* * *

 **Chapter 46: Justice**

"What I don't understand is how anyone falls for that - who goes over and mounts a strange horse? I mean, I know muggles are pretty oblivious, but that seems a bit much," Theo mused.

"Muggles are _not_ oblivious," Hermione snapped as she walked past them, following the other Gryffindors out of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

"Yes they are," Harry called after her (which she pointedly ignored), before he turned back to Theo. "And there's a reason why kelpies are nearly extinct."

Theo looked dissatisfied with the answer. "But then why do we -"

"Harry, could you please stay behind a few moments?"

Harry looked over to to where Remus was packing his teaching materials away. "Of course, Professor Lupin."

He placed his textbook into his book bag but left it on his desk, and then glanced at Theo, who had gone silent and was staring at him with raised eyebrows, to which he shrugged innocently in return.

Theo rolled his eyes before hoisting his own bag over his shoulder and following the other third year students out of the classroom.

After everyone else had left and the door banged shut behind them, Harry looked up at Remus confusedly. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no, not at all." Remus sat down at the edge of the teacher's desk, facing Harry. "I just wanted you to know before anyone else," he began, "Sirius Black has been captured, along with Peter Pettigrew."

 _Well this_ is _favourable_ _news,_ Tom said, quite pleased.

Harry wanted to jump up and shout something like "Yes!" or "I did it!" but settled for looking very surprised. "So...Peter Pettigrew is alive after all?"

"Yes – I must say, you have excellent instincts, Harry."

Harry smiled bashfully, before frowning. "But why was Pettigrew _captured_?"

Remus hesitated. "Sirius claims that it wasn't him who betrayed your parents; he claims that Peter was the traitor."

Harry nodded slowly, and appeared to consider this carefully. "And you believe him?"

Remus hesitated again. "...I do."

"Why?"

"Well...aside from the occasional agitated rant, Sirius was able to put together a very coherent sequence of events. Besides, Sirius was never the sort of man to lie to save his own skin. He's too proud for that."

 _Gryffindors,_ Tom sneered. Harry had to agree with Tom's disdain - if it was between acquittal and being sent back to Azkaban, he'd gladly lie in a heartbeat...he couldn't imagine why anyone wouldn't in such a case.

 _"_ Was it you who found him, then?"

Remus nodded. "I found him the day after Halloween."

"But what made you go looking for him in the first place?"

"Ah, well...when I heard that Sirius broke into Gryffindor Tower on Halloween night, I immediately thought of what you said earlier that day, about the uncanny resemblance between Ron Weasley's rat and Peter's animagus form, had he cut off his own finger in an attempt to disguise his escape. So I decided to go looking for Sirius because, as we searched the castle, it occurred to me that if he had truly been after you, he would have done his research, and discovered that you're actually a Slytherin - which means that, most likely, he was looking for something else, and I couldn't help but think that perhaps this something else was indeed Peter, in rat form."

Harry nodded slowly, stifling a grin. "That seems like a reasonable assumption. Although...it does beg the question of how Sirius Black knew to search Gryffindor Tower for Peter Pettigrew in the first place."

Remus nodded. "It does. Are you aware, Harry, that the Weasley family won a trip to Egypt last summer?"

Harry frowned. "I think I might have heard one of the Weasleys say something about that. Ron might have been bragging about it at the beginning of the year."

"Well, a picture of them was published in the Daily Prophet, rat and all -"

Harry's eyes widened. "And Sirius Black saw it."

"Yes, precisely."

"So how did he escape?"

"Do you remember what you said about animagus forms being a good escape tactic?"

Harry nodded.

Remus's lips twitched, as though he was trying not to smile. "He transformed, slipped out of his cell and swam all the way to shore."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Wow. That's...impressive."

Remus gave in and smiled wryly. "Sirius never did do things by halves."

"So how did you convince the dementors to capture him alive?"

"Convince the dementors? That would have been a feat indeed. No, I went the easier route – I captured Peter first."

"How did you manage that?"

"The quidditch game yesterday – while all the Gryffindors were off cheering for their team -"

Harry could not keep a subtle grin from inching across his face.

"Yes, yes, I know, congratulations on the victory. As I was saying, during the game, I slipped into the dormitories and stunned Ron Weasley's rat - Peter. Then it was a simple matter of carrying a stunned rat to Professor Dumbledore's office and forcing him to transform back into a man there."

Harry's lips twitched. "Very Slytherin of you, professor."

"I have my moments. Anyway, I took Peter to Dumbledore, who sent an urgent owl to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and then it was just a matter of convincing Sirius, who I asked to remain where I found him in the Shrieking Shack, to turn himself in."

"Huh," Harry said thoughtfully, "That was...eerily simple."

Remus chuckled. "Yes, quite. I've been on edge ever since last night – it all seemed too easy."

Harry looked at him seriously. "Don't jinx it."

Remus frowned. "Jinx what?"

"The - oh, never mind. So...what now? He'll be getting a trial, right?"

"Yes, hopefully soon."

"Will they be sending him back to Azkaban in the meantime?"

Remus shook his head. "Oh, no. Professor Dumbledore made sure that he'd be kept in a high security holding cell at the Ministry of Magic until his trial, just like Peter."

Harry smiled. "That's good."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "You're taking this very well, Harry. Are you really so certain of Sirius's innocence?"

Harry pursed his lips. "Well, no, but...Peter Pettigrew was so desperate to disappear that he was willing to live as a rat for twelve years – so he obviously has something to hide. I'm not certain of anything, really. All I know is that everyone deserves a fair trial – even the person who betrayed my parents." He didn't know if he believed those words, but they slipped out with ease.

Remus smiled sadly at him.

"Did I say something wrong?" Harry asked, concerned by Remus's silence.

"No, no...just...you are so like your mother. Lily and James would be so very proud."

Harry felt something twist inside his chest, as he was suddenly aware of the unmistakable feeling of guilt. If only Remus knew. He took a deep breath. No, after everything he had done...he didn't have to feel bad about playing a bit of puppet master, not when it turned out better for everyone this way. It didn't matter why he did it. His parents would be happy he was saving the life of their friend.

"Well," Harry said awkwardly, "I should go now. I should probably eat lunch before Charms."

Remus started. "Oh! Yes, of course."

"Thank you for telling me, Remus. I really do appreciate it."

Remus nodded. "You deserved to know."

When Harry arrived at the Slytherin table - after a quick detour to the library - Theo fixed him with a disapproving stare.

"You only have four minutes left to eat."

Harry sighed. "I know."

"Where were you anyway?" Tracey asked.

Harry picked out a cucumber sandwich. "Professor Lupin had something he wanted to tell me, and then I remembered a book I was meaning to take out."

"Well what was it?"

"It's called _A Compendium of Warding Techniques of -_ "

"No, not the book," Tracey interrupted impatiently, "The thing Professor Lupin wanted to tell you."

"Oh, that. Well..." Harry considered lying, but concluded that he had no reason to. "Sirius Black has been captured. Along with Peter Pettigrew."

Everyone took a moment to gape at him, and immediately after began barraging him with questions.

"They captured him?"

"I thought Peter Pettigrew was dead!"'

"Did the dementors get him?"

"What was Peter Pettigrew arrested for?"

"So wait, does that mean they're both alive?"

"How did they catch him?"

Harry took a bite out of his sandwich. "I'm supposed to be eating."

Tracey looked absolutely outraged. "You can't say something like that and then just...just eat!"

"He has to eat," Theo said irritably.

"Easy for you to say," Tracey snapped, "You're guaranteed a decent explanation later. For all we know Harry will slip off to the library after Charms and then we won't see him until tomorrow morning!"

Theo smirked. "What can I say? Best friend privileges."

"Ugh! Boys!"

Harry swallowed the last of his sandwich, and, being in an excellent mood, decided to refrain from dismissing Tracey's remark. "I don't think this has anything to do with gender. I think you might be projecting your frustration onto an irrelevant - well, I was going to say non-issue, but gender _is_ an issue in many contexts, just not in this one, so I'll call it a non-issue regardless - anyway, you probably did that in an attempt to make your feelings more tangible and concrete in your mind so that they're easier to confront, giving you a chance to presently vent your frustration in a way that's emotionally satisfying."

Everyone was gaping at him now, again.

"We should go to Charms now."

* * *

Naturally, news of Sirius Black's capture and impending trial stirred up a frenzy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and predictably, Harry was right in the middle of it.

Shock was, of course, the prevailing initial reaction to the news; after that, some people became rather excited about the whole thing, while others were fixed on their outrage at the fact that Sirius Black was only getting a trial after twelve years in Azkaban, while still others remained skeptical that a trial would change anything at all. Emotional responses ranged from being angry that Sirius Black hadn't been killed on the spot and was, moreover, getting a trial, to being horrified by the fact that he never got a trial in the first place. But once the initial buzz died down, everyone became a little more self-aware, and began to speak about the affair in hushed tones – well, whenever Harry walked by, at least. At first he was a bit puzzled why random conversations kept dying away whenever he walked by them, but then Hermione explained that the Sirius Black affair was supposed to be a 'sensitive subject' for him, and that his classmates were trying to be 'considerate'.

This confused Harry a great deal. Well, confused wasn't the right word. Contrary to what Hermione thought, he knew that it wasn't out of consideration that his classmates left him out of their speculations and discussions; it was because they were no doubt talking about _him_ as well, and didn't want him to know about it. So rather than confused, he was mildly frustrated, because the whole thing was just so irritating. He knew Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban without a trial, they knew Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban without a trial, and they knew he knew that Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban without a trial – so really, the evidence that he was guilty of anything was far from damning, which was his official stance on the subject (not that anyone really bothered asking him upfront), despite the fact that he was apparently supposed to have an openly fervent opinion on it. In all honesty, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about the whole thing (except for satisfied that his and Tom's plans were coming to fruition), but everyone else seemed to know, and decided to keep it to themselves. As usual.

He sometimes got the feeling that Tom had skimped on his education in some ways. He'd have to be an idiot not to realize that some of his social skills weren't up to par with the average thirteen year old and that his intuitions ranged from non-existent to abnormally precise, so he was pretty sure he missed something somewhere along the way with regards to how he was supposed to feel about 'sensitive subjects'. At this point he was wondering whether Tom enjoyed his confusion, or if his mentor was even more oblivious than he was.

That aside...

He supposed he was happy about it - the fact that Sirius Black was to receive a fair trial. The thought that the wrong man had been suffering in Azkaban all these years did not sit well with him, but perhaps even more unnerving was the fact that the wrong man - the man that his parents knew and trusted, the same man that squandered that trust and betrayed them - had been living this whole time as a free man...more or less. It was little consolation that Peter Pettigrew was forced to live a humiliating life as a rat for twelve years; he had done so in the knowledge that he had done it, that he had done the unthinkable and gotten away with it, that he had, at the very least, the potential for a future. Sirius Black received only despair and suffering for his loyalty. But now he would have the chance for something more.

So yes, he was happy about the whole affair; he was pleased that something in the world was being set right. It was satisfying, to say the least.

He was happy, and eager. He found himself wondering what sort of man Sirius Black was; he wondered if Sirius Black would like him, or if he'd want to meet him at all. All in all, he supposed he was excited at the prospect of meeting this mysterious and very unfortunate man.

The trial date was set for November 25th, and Harry had already been given permission to miss his classes so that he could attend with Remus. He was quite enthusiastic about this, because he had no idea what the trial would be like, who would be there, and what would happen. All he knew was that it would be an adventure unlike any one he'd ever had before, and that the stakes were high enough that the whole affair made him tingle with excitement every time he thought of it. Tom, of course, scoffed at his eagerness, but that did little to dampen his spirits. As the trial date approached, he found himself becoming more and more filled with nervous energy.

But then it was postponed. On November 21st, Peter Pettigrew managed to escape the Ministry of Magic, leaving the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the midst of a frantic manhunt, which was ultimately futile. Apparently having a common grey rat as an animagus form had a lot of perks, as Harry himself had pointed out. So the trial was on hold indefinitely.

Speaking of animagus forms, though, Harry was getting even closer to achieving his. While Hermione and Theo were forced to wait for the chance to identify their respective breeds of animals, Harry was pleased to find that the Hogwarts Library had a number of books on different species of owls and their respective anatomies, which were helping him along in the next stage of his studies. After discovering one's spirit animal, Hermione made it very clear that the next step would be to gain an _in depth_ knowledge of the anatomy of said animal – the more details the better. So after discovering the species of his animagus form - an exceptionally dark coloured greater sooty owl, native to Australia - Harry had taken to sketching owls in his diary, scratching detailed depictions of their skeletons into his notes, and spending his free time (what little there was) in the owlry, making casual conversation with what he felt were quickly becoming new friends of his. By the time December rolled around, he felt that he was ready to begin working on the transformation in earnest, but decided to hold off for a while, not wanting to get too ahead of Hermione and Theo.

Of course, his animagus transformation wasn't on the top of his 'to-do' list for the Christmas holidays – learning to cast fiendfyre was. Harry had been casting _placo ignis_ every day at least once for a year (save in the summer), and could now use it to put out regular fires (albeit of modest size) wordlessly and wandlessly (though not at the same time, unfortunately), leaving Tom more than satisfied, and eager to teach him what was possibly the most notorious dark spell in existence (save for the unforgivables, that is).

As it turned out, fiendfyre was tricky. Not unmanageably difficult, just...different. There was no incantation and no wand movements – it was an act of pure will, and expression of unadulterated darkness. Oddly enough, it reminded him of the _patronus_ charm.

The _patronus_ charm hadn't given him much more trouble. It had taken a couple of weeks to make a corporeal _patronus_ again, but he eventually managed it, this time without losing consciousness; in the end he was able to keep himself at a safe distance from whatever that overwhelming feeling was, and was eventually able to use regular happy memories to feed the charm (you know, like normal people did). Remus theorized that performing such an advanced charm might have required him to use a part of his magical core that he hadn't used much before, and that his first successful attempt had actually unlocked a part of his magic - but now that it was unlocked, casting was much easier. At that point, Remus had given him a very suspicious look, and Harry was pretty sure that the man deduced that he was practicing dark magic.

Tom had mentioned a few times that it was difficult to cast both advanced light magic and advanced dark magic. After his experience with the _patronus_ charm, Harry was inclined to agree, but even though it was difficult, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be as impossible as Tom made it sound. Perhaps if he proceeded slowly on both fronts, he would master both eventually. Tom only scoffed at him.

 _Not likely._

Which probably would have been true, had it been anyone else. Harry didn't think this out of arrogance, he just had this theory that his skill with casting dark magic came entirely from from relentless practice, Tom's memories, and the little piece of Tom's magical core which resided inside of him. It had occurred to him more than once that Tom casting magic while possessing Harry might result in something like the partial merging of their cores. He was sure it had occurred to Tom as well - in fact, he thought that might be why Tom gave up on his ambition to possess Harry on a more permanent basis - but since Tom never brought it up, he figured that his friend was still working on the details, and would let him know when he had something definitive.

Either way, Harry had a theory that he might have actually been born with a magical core that was at least partially inclined to casting light magic, and that he simply wasn't used to having to access much of it - hence his embarrassing episode in Remus's office. He was very relieved that there were no incidents afterward, and that he was now able to cast the _patronus_ charm consistently. But he didn't want to stop there.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could make another request," he asked back in November, after Remus told him that he had nothing more he could teach him about the _patronus_ charm, and that the rest was just regular practice.

Remus's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

Harry nodded and steeled himself. "Most of the magic we learn in school is neutral - neither light magic nor dark magic. In Charms we learn the occasional spell that could be considered light magic, and we learn basic light magic in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but it's mostly counter-jinxes, hexes, and curses, but learning the _patronus_ charm has made me think that there's more to it than that. That light magic is actually just as well developed as dark magic...just inexplicably less prevalent. I was wondering if you might know anything about this."

 _You could have just asked me_ , Tom said, sounding a bit sour. True, Harry could have asked Tom for a general explanation, but he doubted Tom would give him more than that.

Remus stared at him critically for a moment, before gesturing to the spindly chair in front of his desk. "Why don't you sit down, Harry."

Pleased that Remus was taking his request seriously, Harry sat down with an attentive look on his face.

After Remus had also sat down he summoned his kettle and wordlessly filled it and boiled the water, pouring them both a cup of orange pekoe tea. It was a well-established tradition at this point.

"You're right, there is a lot more to it than that," Remus said as he handed Harry a mug of tea. "Light magic is a very broad field, and you will learn a bit more as you get closer to your NEWT year - you'll learn more advanced and generalized counter-curses, along with some warding and healing spells in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms, probably in sixth or seventh year. But that only really scratches the surface."

"But I want to know what's beneath the surface," Harry said, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Remus smiled at him. "Of course. So, healing spells make up a good portion of the light magic commonly used - healers study these extensively in their post-Hogwarts education. But there is a whole other category not commonly touched by the average witch or wizard. As you might know, some, but not all, dark magic requires strong negative emotions to cast - like the _cruciatus_ curse or the killing curse - and light magic is very much the same. Healing spells and most counter-curses don't require much potent emotion to cast...whereas magic like the _patronus_ charm certainly does."

"And there's a whole category of spells just like that?"

Remus nodded. "But they're difficult to cast. Very difficult. Arguably more difficult than casting dark magic."

Tom scoffed, and Harry frowned. "Why's that?"

"Well, the negative emotions required by dark magic usually have a source or a target. That sort of fear, anger, and hatred are almost always pointed at someone or something, at least indirectly. But positive emotions, in their purest sense, usually aren't. That's the challenge with learning the _patronus_ charm - the caster is typically taught to think of a happy memory to feed the charm...but a happy memory isn't happiness. It's just supposed to remind us of what it feels like to be happy - that's the real power."

"I...don't understand."

"Well, think of it like this. Even a very unhappy person can experience an event that makes them happy; for example, a very evil person can feel positive emotions by causing someone else pain."

Harry nodded, thinking of Tom - he wouldn't say Tom was _evil_ , but Remus's description certainly reminded him of his friend and mentor.

"Yet, you wouldn't call that pure happiness, would you? Because it comes from a desire to cause pain and unhappiness for other people; it's actually a very negative force in the world."

Harry nodded again, all of this sounding very familiar.

"People like that can't cast the _patronus_ charm. Only people who can find happiness through love and peace can truly cast a charm like that. True happiness isn't a targeted emotion; it's a state of being. A happy person can remain happy even when nothing is happy is happening to them, because happiness is ephemeral. This is why light magic is so difficult for ambitious and goal oriented people - because they so often find themselves in a state of dissatisfaction."

Harry's shoulders slumped.

"Difficult, but not impossible," Remus ammended.

Harry looked at him hopefully. "So can you teach me some?"

Remus hesitated. "Besides the difficulty of casting light magic, there's another reason why it's not commonly taught in its more advanced form."

Harry frowned. "What's that?"

"Despite being magic that is supposed to emanate from positive emotions, light magic can...veer on the side of dangerous."

Harry's eyebrows rose.

"You know how I said the _patronus_ charm is an expression of your soul?"

Harry nodded.

"Well, there are some magical theorists who believe that the part of one's magical core that is accessed when casting advanced light magic is dangerously close to the soul, and that you risk damaging your soul by using magic so close to it."

"Wait, aren't you implying that the soul has a _location_?"

Harry just realized that he was constantly confronted with this question but had never bothered to ask it in earnest. Where does the soul come from? How is it possible to split it and store part of it in a physical object? He nearly started smacking his head. How could he have not asked that question?

Remus chuckled. "Well, Harry, that's quite a question indeed. Nobody knows, you see, but there are a few theories. The most popular is that the soul dwells in another plane of existence, and is anchored to our physical bodies by our minds and our magical cores."

"But what's 'another plane of existence'?" Harry asked confusedly.

Remus smiled sheepishly. "I'm afraid I don't have a good answer for that question. I'm not much of a magical theorist myself. I just know a few things from my own explorations into light magic."

 _The most pervasive theory is that it is similar to time in that it is a non-spatial dimension. But while it is possible to move through time (indeed, necessary), the spiritual plane is stationary...except when one interferes with a soul through soul magic. The creation of a horcrux, for instance, entails reaching through the path between the physical body and the soul - through both one's mind and magic - using the mental connection with one's victim as you sever their own connection between the physical plane and the spiritual plane. Using the energy released by that act, you can sever a part of the soul, and with it, part of the path, and anchor it to another object in the physical plane. Ideally, one would only anchor the soul piece and a portion of one's magical core, but in the case of my diary (due to my inexperience at the time) and you (due to the fact that turning you into a horcrux was entirely accidental) a portion of my mind was separated as well._

"-ry? Harry? Are you alright?"

Harry blinked, feeling quite vacant at the moment, overwhelmed by Tom's explanation. "Oh, um, yes."

Remus looked concerned. "You just sort of...went blank."

Harry grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry, I was just...thinking."

Remus nodded understandingly.

"Anyway, soul magic...if it's so dangerous, why do _you_ practice it?"

"Well, _practice_ might be an overstatement," Remus admitted. "I was just taught a few things my someone with much more knowledge and experience than I."

"Then who taught you?"

Remus paused, but only for a moment. "Your mother, actually," he said in a soft voice.

Harry's eyes were wide. "My mother?"

Tom had mentioned that his mother was skilled with soul magic, and had implied that she, like him, had researched the dark magic of horcruxes and immortality...but what if that wasn't it at all? What if his mother's explorations into 'soul magic' were actually her studies in advanced light magic?

Oblivious to Harry's revelation, Remus went on, "Yes, she was a very skilled witch, you know. After graduating from Hogwarts she immediately began working on a Mastery in Charms - she did it by correspondence with an Austrian wizard, I think. She was well on her way to becoming either a healer or a...Ministry of Magic employee dedicated to top-secret research."

In other words, and Unspeakable.

"She was brilliant, and a relentless researcher, and I imagine she would have excelled in whichever field she chose."

Harry's felt an incredibly warm feeling inside him when he heard Remus's statement. When he heard things lik that...he was so proud of his mother; he wished he could know more about her...he wished he could know so, so much more. But then it hit him. Maybe he could If his mother was a researcher, surely she kept notes somewhere. If he could find them...

"Did she have any research notes?" Harry asked Remus, "Any records of the projects she was working on?"

Remus blinked. "Oh, er, I hadn't thought of that, actually. I'm sure she did...but she probably hid them quite well, due to the nature of her work."

Harry wilted a little. "Oh. But...you can teach me what she taught you, right?"

Remus hesitated. "Like I said, Harry, some of this stuff is actually quite dangerous -"

"I would be really, really careful," Harry interjected, "I just want to learn, that's it. I'm curious. And...it's stuff that my mum taught you."

Remus sighed. "I suppose if anyone has a right to this knowledge, it's you."

Harry grinned.

 _"But_ , this is all theoretical - you don't cast this magic outside my office without talking to me first."

"Of course!"

Remus smiled a little. "Alright, then - I'll teach you everything I can."

Harry beamed at him. "Can we start right now?"

Remus considered this. "Sure. Why not?"

"Right! What do I learn first?"

Remus sat back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Ah, I have just the thing. It's not too difficult, and not dangerous at all. The incantation is _depello hexia_. You can cast it on another person, and it deflects minor jinxes and hexes."

"Brilliant!"

So, as it turned out, his sessions with Remus did not come to an end; instead, they were extended indefinitely. Tom wasn't exactly eager to have him learning more light magic, but Harry could tell that the prospect of possibly learning magic which interacted with the soul excited him, and he therefore had no problem with the continuation of Harry's lessons...

As long as he learned fiendfyre.

As he was getting to before, it was much like the _patronus_ charm, and it turned out that his practise in casting that particular bit of advanced light magic - and his continued studies in light magic - aided him quite a bit. Tom had expected his mastery of the _patronus_ charm to make learning dark magic much more difficult, but as he worked toward learning to cast the cursed fire, Harry found it to be the opposite; indeed, the contrast helped him very much in manufacturing the feelings he needed in order to cast such advanced magic. While he needed to feel pure, meaningful peace while casting the _patronus_ charm, fiendfyre required dark, simmering fury and hatred. While casting the _patronus_ charm required him to immerse himself feelings of family, friendship, and belonging - in vague memories of tranquility - casting fiendfyre demanded that he succumbed to his hatred of the same fear the boggart and dementor preyed on, the unrestrained anger he found himself overcome with from time to time, and feelings of dissatisfaction, longing, and ravenous desperation. It was the fervent desire to consume.

After that...it was a matter of control. Casting the fire itself would not have been a significant problem; the problem was learning to control these emotions with deliberate finesse. Of course, he wasn't supposed to even attempt casting anything until he could convince Tom that he had suitable control over his emotions.

 _You need to control yourself,_ Tom snapped as Harry sat on the floor of the Room of Requirement, meditating at 2 am on a Friday night. Well, not meditating - stewing in intense anger and frustration. From what he could tell, he was meant to make himself as angry as possible, and somehow maintain that anger while staying calm. It was a lot easier said than done.

"I already know that!" Harry snapped back, gritting his teeth when a pulse of pain emanated through his brain. "And stop that! How am I supposed to control myself with a headache!?"

The pain intensified.

 _If you can't handle a bit of pain, how do you think you'll perform in a duel?_ Tom said smoothly, apparently deciding to teach by example by dispelling his frustration.

Harry exhaled sharply. "Fine, fine! I get it! Just -" He took a deep breath. _:Stop it, please. I can't do this. Not like this.:_

The pain intensified even further.

 _Yes, you can_ , Tom said, his voice forceful and menacing.

"I can't!" Harry panted out, and the pain intensified again.

 _You have been trained by Lord Voldemort himself, Harry Potter - a small measure of pain is not enough to daunt you._

"It is..it is...it is..." Harry chanted in between coughs that sounded suspiciously like sobs. "I can't do this...I can't do this..."

His hands were shaking and his teeth were starting to chatter.

 _Yes, you can._

The pain intensified even further, and Harry collapsed on the ground, clutching his head so hard his nails might have drawn blood.

"Stop it...stop it...stop it..."

 _No, it will not stop. It will never stop. You are a weak little boy, Harry Potter, a scared little boy with no self control. You are a child, begging for mercy, and you are pathetic. Truly helpless. Weak. And as long as you are like this, it will never, ever stop._

"STOP IT!"

 _No._

"STOP!"

 _Ask nicely,_ Tom hissed.

Breaths hoarse and ragged, Harry rolled onto his back and faced the ceiling, placing his palms flat on the cold stone floor.

Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out.

"Stop. Now...please."

The words were quiet, and his voice carefully controlled, free of panic or desperation - and the pain relented, leaving Harry shaking and sweating on the floor.

The room was silent, except for the sound of his laboured breathing. The ceiling shimmered with little white stars overhead, mingled with black spots that crawled around like little bugs. He could feel sweat dripping down the side of his head, down to the cold stone floor.

 _Well done, Harry,_ Tom said quietly, and suddenly all the phantom pain, the fear, and the anger drained away, and he was filled with pride and immense relief.

 _You have done very, very well._

At those words, he was filled with a kind of ecstasy, something like joy - but it was only for a moment, because he fell asleep almost instantly, and by the time he woke up, the moment was forgotten.

And it continued like that for several more days.

After a week of the pseudo-meditating for four hours every night, he graduated to using his wand - at that point, the end of term had come around...along with another Hogsmeade day, which Harry was feeling too sick to go on.

Tom was rather amused at that, the bastard.

Anyway, after a few days of practicing several hours a day with his wand, getting only sparks for his effort, on Christmas Eve he finally managed to cast the cursed fire in the Room of Requirement, only to freak out and extinguish it a moment later.

 _"Placo ignis! Placo ignis! P-placo -"_ cough "- _ignis!"_

In the end, he was left standing in a cloud of smoke, coughing, expecting to be scolded by Tom - but he was pleasantly surprised.

 _Well, it's a start_ , Tom said wryly a few moments after he stopped coughing.

"Really?" Harry croaked out, stunned.

 _You managed to cast it_ , Tom drawled, _That's more than most thirteen year old wizards could say._

"R-really?" Harry stuttered out in utter disbelief, his voice having risen nearly an octave.

He could feel amusement radiating from Tom's presence. _Fishing for compliments, Harry? How very juvenile. Clearly, my lessons have been so strenuous that they have addled your brain and reduced you to the mental capacity of an insecure eight year old. Perhaps a day of rest is in order._

Harry's brain nearly came to a halt, at that. Tom's tone, while joltingly familiar, seemed so...so strange. Foreign. When he thought about it, Tom hadn't teased him like that in a long time. Indeed, since he'd merged with his younger self, he'd seemed very intent on antagonizing Harry for the most part. So hearing Tom speak so lightly...it was refreshing, and his heart swelled when he heard the tone of his best friend's voice.

In the end, he settled on a smile and a soft, _:Thank you, Tom. And Merry Christmas.:_

There was a pause.

 _:I don't celebrate Christmas, you stupid little boy.:_

* * *

The time Harry spent outside of the Room of Requirement and Remus's office were spent either in the library or in the Slytherin Common Room, where he finished his Arithmancy problem sets a couple of days before Christmas. And seeing as he had Christmas off from Tom's lessons, he was free to spend it however he wanted - so he spent it in Hogsmeade, with Remus.

Tom didn't even complain.

The went to Honeydukes (where Remus bought him an ungodly amount of sweets), and the book shop, and Gladrags Wizarding Wear, where Harry bought himself his very first suit for Christmas. Well, really, it was a black blazer, black button down, black tie, black tailored pants, and black shoes - one thing Harry knew about fashion was that black matched with black. The same could not be said of other colours. Either way, Tom approved of the colour scheme.

They stopped at the Three Broomsticks Inn a little after noon, where Remus bought him a hearty lunch and some butterbeer, and over pub food and some mild Christmas cheer they talked about what his parents were like, the times they fought in school, their first dates, their wedding, and Harry's birth. Over the course of three hours, Remus even told him more details about how they all met on the Hogwarts Express, about the Marauders and the many grand pranks they played.

"I am more than pleased that you did not inherit your father's penchant for immature tricks," Remus told him, and Harry could not help but note that note that if he had, Tom wouldn't have tolerated it.

After a quick stop by Zonko's, they made their way back to the castle, where the usual grand Hogwarts Christmas Feast was served.

It was the best Christmas Harry had ever had. In fact, it was made even better by the announcement on December 26th that Sirius Black's trial date had been set for January 4th.

And that's how, ten days after the best Christmas ever, Harry found himself dressed in the tidy black suit he bought himself for Christmas (Harry thought he looked quite good in it) – and seated beside a nervous-looking Remus on the uncomfortable wooden benches that stretched along the walls of the Ministry of Magic's main courtroom.

The walls were made of dark stone, dimly lit by torches, and the highest benches on the far end of the room were populated by shadowy figures, whose eyes were fixed on the centre of the room, which played host to a large iron chair, to which was chained none other than Sirius Black.

There were about fifty of them, the shadowy figures on the walls, as far as he could see, wearing plum-colored robes with an elaborately woven silver W on the lefthand side of the chest. They all seemed to ignore the large crowd in the room, either whispering amongst each other or staring down their noses at Sirius Black, some with very austere expressions, others looks of frank curiosity. Most of them, however, looked very grave indeed. In the very middle of the front row sat Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. A broad, square-jawed witch with very short gray hair sat on Fudge's left; she wore a monocle and an expression on her face that looked very forbidding. On Fudge's right was another witch, but she was sitting so far back on the bench that her face was in shadow. She was, however, quite notably clad in nothing but pink.

"Very well," Fudge said slowly once everyone had settled in their seats. "The accused being present, let us begin. The date is January the fourth, 1994. This is the criminal trial for defendant Sirius Orion Black.

"Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister.

"The charges against the defendant are as follows: that he was in the service of You-Know-Who and betrayed the location of Lily and James Potter to You-Know-Who, leading to their death on October 31, 1981. Further, the defendant is accused of thirteen counts of murder. Are you, the defendant, Sirius Orion Black?"

"Yes," came the quiet reply, gravelly and hoarse. The man, still dressed in simple but clean prison garb, had straightened his back and his dark eyes were now staring up determinedly at the Minister through his bedraggled shoulder-length hair.

"And how does the defendant plead?"

"Not guilty," Sirius Black rasped out.

"Very well."

The Minister shuffled his papers, and looked over at Madame Bones, who cleared her throat.

"The prosecution requests that the defendant be placed under the influence of Veritaserum. Do you consent, Mr. Black?"

"I do," the man said, restraining his voice, as though trying not to sound too eager.

Madame Bones nodded curtly. "Irving?"

A short wizard toddled up to Sirius Black's chair, quivering a little under the stares being directed at him, before he lifted up a small bottle filled with a clear liquid.

"Open your mouth please," he stammered, shakily wiping the side of his head with a handkerchief.

Sirius Black looked down at him for a moment, lips twitching an amused light in his eye, before he obeyed, wincing as the clear liquid was poured down his throat. He shivered a little.

When the short wizard disappeared into the crowd, Madame Bones cleared her throat again.

"Name?"

"Sirius Orion Black."

"Date of birth?"

"November 3rd, 1959."

It was rare, but Harry had read that people occasionally had a strange allergic reaction to the truth serum which rendered them unable to speak. He also read that some people could build up a resistance to the potion, but he supposed there was no way to test for that.

Madame Bones nodded again. "Now, Mr. Black, please tell us, in your own words, what happened on the night of October 31st, 1981."

Sirius released a shuddering breath. "I was going to visit Peter that day," he said quickly, "I arrived at his hiding place -"

"This is Peter Pettigrew you speak of?"

Sirius grimaced. "...yes. I arrived there, and found him missing...there were no signs of a struggle, so...so I was worried. I decided – I decided I had to check on James and Lily -"

"It is our understanding, Mr. Black, that James and Lily Potter were residing in a cottage placed under the _fidelius_ charm. Were you their Secret Keeper?"

"No. But I was one of the few keyed into the wards."

Madame Bones nodded curtly. "Very well. Continue."

Sirius took a deep breath. "When I reached Godric's Hollow..." He stopped short and choked a little.

Harry glanced at Remus, beside him, and saw the deeply pained look on his face.

"The house...it was destroyed, and James and Lily..." The man grit his teeth. "Th-they were dead. Only H-harry was alive."

Sirius took several deep breaths, before continuing. "Rubeus Hagrid arrived, soon after...he took Harry to Dumbledore."

"And what did you do, Mr. Black?"

"I...gave him my motorcycle. It flies," he added reflexively.

Madame Bones, however, was decidedly unamused. "And after that?"

"I...I went after Peter."

"And why did you go after Mr. Pettigrew, Mr. Black?"

A dark scowl overtook the man's gaunt face. "He – he was the Secret Keeper. He – he – if Voldemort found them – it was Peter. It had to be. Peter must have – he betrayed them," he spat out, his face twisting into a vicious grimace.

"That does not answer my question, Mr. Black. Why did you go after Mr. Pettigrew?"

A mad look entered Sirius eye, and he barked out a scornful laugh, which carried cuttingly over the starkly silent courtroom. "To kill him of course! He – they – James and Lily – they were _dead_! He needed to pay, the bastard – the traitor – that rat – he needed to pay! He deserves to die for what he did! He betrayed his friends. He should have died! _He should have died!_ "

Harry looked around, seeing several people shifting uneasily in their seats, obviously unnerved by Sirius Black's passionate raving. Harry felt nothing but immense pity. Veritaserum did more than force one to tell the truth – it removed one's inhibitions, and placed one's emotions on display for all to see. This anger, hatred, grief – this is what had been raging inside Sirius Black's heart, for twelve long years...with no hope of release or quelling.

Meanwhile, Madame Bones cleared her throat. "And did you catch Mr. Pettigrew?"

"I thought I did," Sirius said quietly, his voice little more than a murmur; but it was amplified greatly by the stark silence of the room. "I found him, I cornered him in the city...but he...he lied...he shouted that _I_ was the one who betrayed James and Lily...and then he murdered those muggles...don't know which curse it was. He...he must have used the explosion to escape. Cut off his own finger..."

Madame Bones stared at him critically. "Witnesses say you were found laughing at the scene of the crime, Mr. Black. How do you explain that?"

Sirius wore now a self-deprecating smile. "I thought he was dead. I thought he'd blown himself up. It was funny."

"You also confessed to the crime," Madame Bones said, "You were quoted as saying it was your fault."

Sirius Black's expression crumbled into one that was openly broken, and he suddenly looked very lost. "Because it was." His voice was little more than a whisper. "I'm the one who suggested they choose Peter. I thought I'd be too obvious a choice. I...if it weren't for me...they'd still be alive."

Madame Bones stared at him for a long moment, before nodding. She then turned to a man sitting to her left, in the front row. "Mr. Alexander Jefferson, Head Interrogator of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement - you, with his consent, viewed Sirius Black's memories of October 31, 1981 on November 18th, 1993 in a pensieve, did you not?"

The man stood. "Yes I did, Madame Bones," he said in a deep, gravelly voice.

"And were your findings consistent with Mr. Black's account of what happened on that night?"

The man glanced at Sirius, before nodding. "They were, Madame Bones."

The woman nodded. "Thank you, you may be seated." She glanced around the room, her honey-brown eyes boring into each and every person there. "Summarily, Sirius Orion Black has been accused of being in league with You-Know-Who, which he denies, of betraying the location of Lily and James Potter to You-Know-Who, which he denies, of murdering twelve muggles, which he denies, and of murdering Peter Pettigrew, a charge which has since been dismissed, as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been presented with undeniable proof that the alleged victim still lives. You have heard the defendant's defence under the influence of Veritaserum, and have been presented with the results of our interrogation of Sirius Black. Wizengamot, have you any further questions to ask the defendant?"

A murmur broke out across the room, but in the end, no one spoke up.

"Very well. You may take your time to deliberate the verdict."

She paused, allowing the urgently whispered conversations to buzz on between the Wizengamot members, whose expressions ranged from tragically saddened to incensed.

Harry glanced over at Remus, whose eyes were fixed on the side of Sirius Black's head. The man himself was frozen stiff, his entire frame shaking with his shuddering breaths.

Harry tried to go over Sirius Black's testimony in his mind; he tried to search for any holes, anything missing, anything that might stop him from being declared innocent. But in the end, he couldn't think at all, and just joined Remus in silently staring down at Sirius Black.

Twenty minutes later, the whispers died down, and when they did, Madame Bones looked over at the members of Wizengamot.

"Have the members of Wizengamot reached their verdict?"

"We have, Madame Bones."

The woman nodded curtly. "Those in favour of conviction," the woman's voice boomed across the room.

Harry saw Sirius Black's chest heaving out laboured breaths

Not a single hand was raised in the air.

"And those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?"

Every single member of Wizengamot now had their hand in the air. Harry heard an explosive sigh of relief escape Remus's chest beside him.

The Minister of Magic glanced at Madame Bones, who nodded at him.

"Very well," Cornelius Fudge said loudly, "Cleared of all charges."

* * *

Oh god, this one grew too. It started out less than 4000 words...and then it just...blew up. On that note, sorry about any strangeness of flow or tone - it might be past its carrying capacity.

Anyway, predictable conclusion, but satisfying, I hope. Let me know what you think of this turn of events in a review which I assure you will be loved and cherished.


	47. Freedom

**Disclaimer:** I solemnly swear I am not up to no good, where no good is stealing other people's work.

 **AN1:** I feel compelled to remind everyone that this story is written in Harry's voice, from his point of view. I'm saying this because I want you to remember that even though Harry thinks Tom has good in him, this is a highly biased and very questionable opinion.

 **AN2:** I just wanted to say thanks so much for the reviews for last chapter! There were several that were really, really helpful, and inspired me to rethink certain plot points.

 **AN3:** The German in this chapter is actually a passage from Hegel's _Phenomenology of Spirit_...I needed something plausible, and it happened to fit.

* * *

 **Chapter 47: Freedom**

 _"Sure we're criminals," you said, "We were always criminals. We have to be criminals."_

Superman quoted those words, in _The Dark Knight Returns_. They were originally said by Bruce Wayne – Batman – in the face of criticism, when people called the Justice League criminals for protecting them.

It was so easy to side with Batman, back then; so easy condemn the law as an obstacle to overcome in the pursuit of creating a better world...so easy to sympathize with what Superman called Batman's _holy war_.

But a lot of things were easier back then.

One of the first things Tom taught him about the world was that it was filled with corrupt, twisted hypocrites, and that there was a fine line between these degenerates and the visionaries, the enlightened souls with the power to change the world and the determination to do whatever it took to achieve their goals; the key difference between these two types of people being that the corrupt created corrupt laws which thwarted progress, while visionaries remained free of such things, and pursued change and transformation unimpeded.

A strong argument could be made that, in some of the comics at least, Bruce Wayne was not, in fact, a good man – that he was ultimately driven by selfish desires and dark urges – but he was a man with immense potential, who consistently worked toward what he believed was a better future. And for that, Harry had admired him.

Harry _knew_ Tom was not a good man, and that he was misled in many ways, but he too had a vision for a better world; yes, he was driven by at many points in his life by rage and madness, but he had changed, and was once again focused on redesigning their world and ridding it of corruption. And Harry...well, really, he did what he had to to survive. It wasn't easy, navigating a world full of potential enemies, but he did what he had to to ensure that he and Tom would get through it, so that they could become great together – so that he could make his parents and his friends proud, and create a better future. That was the plan...at least, that's what he'd always told himself.

His actions were justified, and ultimately directed toward bettering the world. The law was only a hindrance, yet another thing working against him, and was, in the end, worthless, if not harmful. The law, as a principle, was to be viewed with skepticism and taken with a grain of salt. Vigilantism was the path that should be taken by those who could do so. Anarchy was humanity's only chance for greatness and freedom.

But lately, he had noticed the blatant similarities between vigilantism and the variation of martial law that was put in place during the last days of the war. Both methods of imparting justice and restoring order were single-mindedly goal-oriented, concerned with results rather than following a designated process; both forced the common man to rely on a select few 'enlightened ones' to rule their lives and enforce a greater good. Both were an embodiment of a select few's notion of what justice and order truly were.

And Sirius Black had been a victim of this justice.

If he was being entirely honest, Harry would admit that his stomach had churned when he first laid eyes on Sirius Black; the man was...well, he wasn't a man - he was a shadow of one. It was a cliche description that Harry had read in fiction before...but it was startlingly accurate. He had been shockingly thin, his skin was grey and his face gaunt – and that was after two months of what he hoped was much kinder treatment at the DMLE holding cells. It was then that it hit Harry that those unlucky enough to be sentenced to Azkaban were trapped with what were essentially creatures that were designed to rid you of your will to live. Constant, never-ending psychological torture. That was the price of murdering someone in the wizarding world – and Sirius Black had paid it without so much as a trial to prove his guilt.

Sirius Black had done nothing but act out his own ideal of justice, and had fallen victim to another man's justice.

 _That's_ why there was a system. _That's_ why there were laws. That's why, if anyone knew the truth, Harry would be locked away forever.

It was that uneasy thought that plagued Harry's mind as he strode down the pristine, whitewashed hallways of St Mungo's, half a stride behind Remus.

Immediately following Sirius Black's trial and subsequent acquittal, the man was shipped off to St Mungo's to be treated for the years of abuse he had suffered at Azkaban Prison – which he clearly needed. It was maltreatment that put what he experienced with the Dursleys to shame, and the very thought of suffering it with no end in sight made his stomach squirm, all the while planting this one poisonous thought in his head – this one speculation that if he was ever sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban...

Well he'd be better off dead, wouldn't he?

The very thought made his skin feel clammy and something bitter bubble up from his stomach. Death...the final peace that seemed so unattainable; the great evil that he and Tom ever fled from; the terrible, terrible cold blackness that erased the sun and the warmth and everything beautiful. It was terrifying, but inevitable; and at times he could not help but wonder if speeding the process along would ever seem like the more worthwhile path.

It had once before - he scarcely remembered it, but he would never be able to entirely forget that singularly horrifying feeling...that life was more painful than death, and that there was something better waiting on the other side.

And it was that morbid memory that Harry was trying to shake out of his mind when he and Remus arrived at the floor where Sirius Black was being treated.

It took some convincing, but eventually, due to Remus's surprisingly clever and diplomatic attempts at persuasion (which, of course, would not have been complete without a bit of name-dropping), they were both allowed into Sirius Black's hospital room, which, despite everything, was still being heavily guarded by DMLE agents.

No doctors were momentarily present – the room was dimly lit and nearly empty, populated only by a single white-clad bed, upon which sat the hunched and visibly exhausted figure of Sirius Black. The man was staring at the window, perfectly still except for his right hand, which caressed his left wrist repeatedly, as though searching for an invisible manacle.

"Sirius?" Remus called out, upon entering the room. His voice was cautious, his face concerned; Harry supposed he was surprised to see the other man so subdued after being declared innocent – it had no doubt occurred to him that the shock of it all had caused something in the ex-convict's mind to go terribly awry.

Sirius, however, immediately rose to his feet, and in a moment he had crossed the room, throwing his arms around Remus, instantly invigorated.

"Remus, my old friend," he whispered hoarsely as he gripped his friend's shoulders with such ferocity that it was probably going to leave marks.

"I'm so sorry I every doubted you," Remus breathed out quickly.

Sirius was wearing a sad smile at him as he released him. "There is nothing to forgive, dear friend."

Tom made a skeptical sound in his mind.

It was then that the bedraggled ex-convict caught Harry's eye, and gasped, stumbling backward a couple of paces.

"James," he whispered, the little colour in his face draining away in an instant.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Harry, actually. Harry Potter." He held out his hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Black."

But instead of taking his hand, Sirius threw his arms around Harry as well, pulling him tightly into a warm embrace, while Harry went stiff in his arms.

Remus _had_ commented that Sirius Black was close to the Potters, but he really hadn't expected the fervent hug, and felt more than a little awkward, standing there with Sirius's bony arms encircling him tightly.

A moment later, Sirius released him, looking at him top to bottom.

"Look at you, all grown up. Practically a man." There was something very sad, yet proud in the man's voice.

Harry smiled awkwardly. "I guess I was a lot smaller the last time you saw me," he commented, his brain having yet to catch up to the odd situation he found himself in.

 _Perhaps it's best he thinks little of your intelligence in the long run_ , Tom commented, decidedly unimpressed.

Sirius, on the other hand, barked out a laugh. "Much, _much_ smaller." He sighed. "You're what, thirteen now? Third year at Hogwarts?"

Harry nodded mutely, still a bit unnerved.

"Causing lots of trouble, I hope?"

Harry frowned, suddenly very worried about what the man might have heard about him. "Never on purpose."

"Harry's a very responsible, studious young man," Remus put in pointedly.

Sirius gaped at them. "Wh-what? Certainly not! Responsible? Studious? For shame!"

Harry couldn't help it – he coughed out a laugh.

"Don't tell me – you're not a Ravenclaw, are you?"

Harry kept his face decidedly neutral. "Slytherin, actually."

Sirius froze, leaving Harry momentarily anxious as to whether he had just said something wrong – but a moment later, he burst out laughing...very, _very_ hard. "Oh – oh! Merlin, that's just splendid, isn't it! Your dad must be rolling in his grave!"

Harry shifted uncomfortably again, back to being unnerved.

Remus looked at him disapprovingly, but Sirius was still laughing.

"I applaud you, Harry! A Potter in Slytherin – now that's a prank! Almost as great as a Black in Gryffindor!"

Harry looked at him confusedly. "How's that a prank?"

Sirius's chuckles died down. "Because...because...really? You don't get it?"

Harry continued to look puzzled, and Remus just shook his head, clearly exasperated.

Meanwhile, Sirius placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll work on it."

"Er, ok -"

At that moment, a very stressed looking nurse bustled into the room, stopping short to glare at Remus and Harry.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in a scolding tone.

Harry and Remus looked at each other.

"Visiting?" Remus tried sheepishly.

The woman glowered at them. "This man needs medical attention – and rest! - so out! Out!"

Harry and Remus could only obey.

"Make sure to come back, both of you! And bring chocolate! And firewhiskey!"

"They will do no such thing, Mr. Black!"

* * *

 _"Die Kraft des Geistes ist nur so groß als ihre Äußerung, seine Tiefe nur so tief, als er in seiner Auslegung sich auszubreiten und sich zu verlieren getraut...ge..ge..t.."_ Harry muttered, disgruntled, his words muffled by the glowing wand he was gripping between his teeth; both hands were occupied - he held _Über den Geist_ in one hand while he used the other to finger through the German-English Dictionary that sat beside him as he read under his invisibility cloak.

It was about 2 am, and he was...well, trying not to get too caught up in the feeling that life was futile and his efforts were pointless. Not only was he awake when he would very much rather be asleep, but he was being constantly reminded how bad he was at German (to be fair, Tom wasn't exactly a master either) by the 'Kapitel 2' on the top right-hand corner of his page. After an entire term, he was only on Chapter 2...out of 40. Suffice it to say, he hadn't learnt too much yet, leaving Tom feeling irritated and Harry very much ashamed.

It was as he was musing on his failure that a jolt of pain penetrated his forehead.

 _Harry,_ Tom said warningly.

Harry nodded groggily, beginning to flip through his German-English dictionary.

"Äußerung...it means expression or statement...and...Tiefe is depth... Auslegung is interpretation...and...um...auszubreiten..."

 _To spread,_ Tom cut in impatiently.

"Oh, right. So..."

 _More about the power of the spirit._

Harry grimaced.

 _This grows tiresome. Skip ahead to the next chapter. We need to find the word 'Seele'."_

"You know," Harry began cautiously, taking his wand out of his mouth, "This might just be a speculative work on the function of will in magic-casting. Geist translates to will as well. Just like it translates to mind...and ghost..."

Tom was silent for a moment. _Yes, I agree. The introduction seemed promising, but recent evidence suggests that this is not worth our time._

Harry sighed, partially in relief.

 _Return it to its place and continue searching._

"Yes, Tom," Harry grumbled, and began to get up, but froze, and found himself sitting back down again, gripped by a sudden and strange anxiety at the thought of searching for more information on soul magic.

 _What are you doing?_

Harry was silent for a moment. He didn't quite know himself. He just found himself thinking...what if they found a book that contained what they wanted? What if they found a way to make Tom the master soul and give him a body and separate their souls and remove him and -

 _Harry._

"Are you going to leave?"

 _Leave what?_

"Leave me."

 _Surely you have noticed that I am not capable of such a feat at the moment._

Harry took a deep but unsteady breath. "But what about when you are? What about when we figure out how to get you a body of your own? What happens to me then?"

 _...why do you ask that?_

Harry shrugged insecurely. "I just...things are...different now, you know?"

 _No, I do not know._

"Well, it's just...since last year, you've seemed really...I suppose...far away." He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. "I used to be able to tell you were with me, always, but now even though I can hear you...it's not the same. Ever since what happened in the Chamber...and I've been thinking -"

 _An improvement on your usual state of mind, I'm sure._

Harry scowled. "I'm serious, Tom, I'm worried. I'm worried your plans have changed, and there's something you're not telling me. It's not that I don't trust you," he put in quickly, "I'm just worried. Did I do something wrong? Because I've been trying really, really hard."

Tom was silent for a moment, and Harry could feel dread creeping up in his chance.

 _I know you have. You have done well._

Relief flooded him. But it wasn't enough. "Then answer my question." He tried not to sound too demanding, but unease was starting to settle into his stomach, and he was starting to feel even more anxious. Starting to fear he had overstepped his bounds. Starting to think he might not like the answer he was searching for.

Tom hesitated, and Harry held his breath. _What do you think will happen to you?_

"I...I don't know. That - that's why I'm asking you."

 _When we initially discussed my new plan, what did you think would happen to you?_ Tom ammended.

"I...I didn't think about it," Harry admitted, "I always thought that I would be there, beside you, helping you the whole way. I thought we'd tear down the ministry together, build it again, fix the world, make it a safer, better place for witches and wizards - I thought we'd do it together."

 _That is truly what you believed?_

"...yes?"

Tom paused. _Your plan was to abandon your life here - to join me in fighting a war? To turn against the world?_

Harry frowned, unsure as to what exactly Tom was misunderstanding. "In order to save it, yeah."

 _Your plan was to become a criminal. For me._

"I already am," Harry pointed out quietly, "Just nobody knows it yet."

Tom was silent for a moment, and Harry could practically hear his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

 _But now you are afraid that I will have no need of your service. That instead of accepting your efforts I will abandon you. You fear that you have disappointed me during the last nine months, and that once you have freed me from my prison, once we are truly separate beings, you will have outlived your usefulness, and I will leave forever._

"Yes," Harry whispered.

 _You are afraid that you mean nothing to me._

"Yes."

 _You know me well, Harry. You know that though I named my followers as my friends, even my family, they meant nothing to me. You know that they were naught but the sum of their successes and failures, that I neither valued their lives nor mourned their deaths._

Harry nodded shakily. Tom never had never said it outright, but yes, he knew. He knew that Tom held no love for other human beings, even other witches and wizards. Even his most loyal followers meant nothing to him. Harry knew this.

 _But you're different, aren't you, Harry?_

Harry's heart nearly stopped at those words.

Tom seemed to hesitate, here, but only for a moment, and he continued in his calm, smooth voice, _Your loyalty has been boundless and true, your dedication complete and genuine. Your potential, obedience, and sincerity has dwarfed that of all who have come before you, and despite your youth you have done more for me than any other has in all my long years. Your service has been exemplary._

Harry's hands were shaking, now, and he could feel something burning in the back of his throat.

 _Do you truly believe I would abandon you?_

"Then why?" Harry whispered, before he could help himself, "Why don't we talk anymore? Why is all we do horcrux hunting and reading and dark magic?"

 _My mind has been busy. I have much to plan, much to analyse and reconsider. I have admittedly been preoccupied and distant -_

Harry found himself nodding.

 _\- and I do forget, from time to time, that you are different. That your service and loyalty deserve more than task after task. That is my error._

Harry was pretty sure his heart really did stop for a second, this time. Tom rarely, _rarely_ ever admitted that he was wrong. To be fair, he rarely was, but to hear Tom - _Lord Voldemort_ \- come so close to apologizing, apologizing for _upsetting Harry_ of all things...

 _I trust your worries are now assuaged._

Harry nodded mutely.

 _Now, let us continue to search the restriction section, and I will detail for you how I attempted to destabilize and seize the Ministry last time, and why I failed._

A small smile crept across Harry's face.

 _:Yes Tom.:_

* * *

Besides Harry's unsuccessful explorations into soul magic, the new term was going well.

For one, in January he'd finished his first draft of his magnetization spell. The incantation was _Magnes Imbuo,_ after which the caster would specify a radius; after a couple of weeks of experimentation, he'd decided that some more extensive testing was in order, and forthwith plucked up the courage to show his friends, who were extremely impressed. Since then, he had been teaching it to them in the interest of performing more complex and thorough experiments; the goal was to find a way to effectively use it in duels.

'Silly tricks' – he'd show Tom; he'd find a way to prove his spell useful if it was the last thing he did.

So far, all he'd learnt was that there was a fine line between attaching people's buttons to walls and ripping them clean off their clothes. It was a work in progress.

Other than some rather unfortunate mishaps with buttons and watches, duelling practice was going well, and Draco was improving quickly – he'd graduated from being taught spells to actually participating in duels. Usually they would split up into pairs, but there were a couple of times where his friends had gone three-on-one against him, which was much more on the exhilarating side. It was then that he was forced to give up on his dream of imitating Tom in duels, however; there was simply no way for him to duel three people at once and not dodge. Or at least, there was no way _he_ was capable of. So, again, he'd reverted to unceremoniously dodging, running, and occasionally tripping.

That was not to say that he ever lost.

Harry, Theo, and Hermione had also made progress on their animagus forms, and were now all practising the meticulous meditation techniques needed to make the final transformation. According to every book Hermione had come across, this could take a long time. Fortunately, however, after having studied occlumency extensively, they were all quite used to the 'sitting down and doing nothing' nonsense that was meditating, so they'd at least had practice, and had already acquired the discipline and acuity of mind needed to go through the arduous process of visualizing their transformations in intricate detail, which they were now able to do, now that they all knew the breeds of their respective animals. Hermione had learned that she was a fluffy brownish-ginger cat with slightly frizzy hair of the Traditional Persian breed, while Theo was a black and brown German Shepherd dog; Harry thought their animal forms suited them quite well.

And if all that wasn't enough to keep him busy, he had been visiting St. Mungo's with Remus every Saturday at a certain ex-prisoner's request; specifically, they were visiting the Janus Thickey ward, where Sirius had taken up (what he insisted was temporary) residence. The ward was designed to house permanent residents with neurological spell damage, but seeing as Sirius's case was rather unique – St Mungo's had never had to rehabilitate someone with 12 years of dementor exposure under their belt – they didn't have a better place to put him, much to Sirius's ire.

"Apparently I'm in no shape to be taking care of myself, so they stuck me in with all the crazies," Sirius complained to them, pouting a bit, "At least the nurses are hot, though. Except that one who takes the night shift on Thursdays." He shivered at the thought.

Remus shook his head exasperatedly. "The more you complain, the longer they'll keep you here – you do know that, right?"

Sirius groaned. "Oh, I know. They won't let me forget it. But I can't help it, Moony. I'm bored!"

'Moony' was the incredibly silly nickname that Sirius bestowed Remus with – apparently Sirius was 'Padfoot' and his father had been 'Prongs'. Sirius was currently working on developing a good name for an owl. He'd started with 'Pecker', but discarded that for obvious reasons.

Remus sighed. "Well that's why we're here – to keep you from getting too bored."

"That is rather the point," Harry put in, still a bit unsure of why Sirius was so upset about constantly having someone around to cater to his every whim after spending twelve years in Azkaban. If it were Harry, of course, Tom would probably have something for him to do right away, making rest impossible, but it wasn't like Sirius had a dark lord in his head...at least, Harry was pretty sure he didn't.

Sirius shook his head. "Fine, fine. Let's talk about something else – like...like...oh! You're a professor now, aren't you Remus?"

"I am."

Sirius quirked an eyebrow. "All grown up and responsible, then?"

"He's the best Defence against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had," Harry said confidently.

"Is he now?"

Remus chuckled. "The standard wasn't very high."

"I still can't believe you're a _professor_." He glanced at Harry. "He used to be a prefect, you know. It was a bloody travesty."

"I'm hoping to be made one in my fifth year as well."

Sirius groaned. "Not you too!"

Remus grinned a little. "You know, Harry has an almost spotless record, and he's at the top of all his classes. He really is a model student – definitely prefect material."

Sirius gaped at them. "James's son...a model student..." he whispered in shock.

Harry laughed at him, as he had learned to do. Remus had explained to him that he was supposed to...take Sirius's words with a grain of salt. The man, while bold and upfront, had a habit of being spontaneously facetious, and honestly, quite silly.

"Despite his name, he really shouldn't be taken seriously."

Apparently he sort of lacked a 'brain-to-mouth filter', which was something Harry was sure he couldn't live without. Something Tom certainly wouldn't tolerated an absence of.

"He's already started crafting his own spells," Remus said proudly.

Sirius looked over at him with wide eyes. "Really?"

Harry nodded, face heating up a bit.

"Brilliant! You'll have to show me sometime."

"That'll be a bit difficult, seeing as I can't do magic outside of school."

"Oh, right. I always hated that law."

It turned out that spending time with Sirius started to make its way up near the top of Harry's list of his favourite things to do. It was immensely...refreshing. It was different from being with his friends – with Sirius and Remus, he wasn't the responsible one, the one with ideas, the one calling the shots; he was just along for the ride. He didn't have to think, or act, or work, he just had to go along, chatting and answering questions. Sirius and Remus were adults – they didn't need him, they just wanted him there. But they were more than just adults. They were just so...different; they were grownups, but it was as though they hadn't quite yet forgotten what it was like being a kid. They understood him, and they treated him like a competent human being; they didn't act like they were superior to him. They were honest with him, interested in him, and willing to listen to everything he had to say; Sirius in particular had been eager to hear all about Harry's life at Hogwarts.

"So, who're your friends – anyone I'd know?"

"My best friends are Theodore Nott, Hermione Granger, and Draco Malfoy," Harry had rattled off immediately, "I also study with Michael Corner and Terry Boot occasionally, and am on especially friendly terms with Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. I try to be on generally friendly terms with everybody, though."

Sirius gaped in response. "You're friends with a _Malfoy_?"

Harry shrugged. "He was a real prat at first, but after I saved his life, he wasn't so bad."

Sirius blinked. "You saved his life? Why the bloody hell would you do that?"

"I would have felt bad leaving him to rot in the Chamber of Secrets, to be honest."

Sirius was back to gaping. "The _Chamber of Secrets?"_

Harry nodded. "Yes, I suppose you know what that is?"

Sirius nodded back dumbly.

Harry decided the man deserved an explanation. "There was this cursed diary – I think Voldemort might have made it – that was going around possessing people, and making them set a basilisk loose on the students. It possessed Draco and trapped him down in the Chamber of Secrets."

A jolt of pain shot through his brain, and he froze.

Oops.

"Wait a minute," Remus said, "I thought you found Draco _before_ he entered the Chamber of Secrets."

"Oh...yes...well, we lied about that because, _you know..."_

Understanding dawned on Remus, and he nodded.

Meanwhile, Sirius's head whipped back and forth between them. "Know what?!"

"Oh, well..."

"Sirius can keep a secret," Remus commented pointedly.

Sirius grinned. "Oh, I definitely can – there was one time when I caught Remus and this Slytherin girl -"

Remus cleared his throat. "Not exactly helping your case, Sirius."

Meanwhile, Harry was enduring a great deal of inner turmoil, which was not at all being improved by Tom's active commentary.

 _If you lie, the werewolf will react, and Black will know that you're lying. If you refuse to say anything, he will know that you do not trust him, and if you appear to have no trust in him, he will not fully trust you, and you might not gain access to his house elf, which is not acceptable._

 _Which means we must consider the merits of informing him. It is unlikely that Black knows what a horcrux is, and it is unlikely that he will ever discover them – and if he does, it is not likely that he has the intelligence require to deduce that you are one. The more pressing problem, then, is that he could tell Dumbledore our secret, which is also unacceptable. We could only tell him if we were certain that he would not reveal our secret -_

"You can't tell Professor Dumbledore," Harry said, deciding to take a page out of Sirius's book and be incredibly blunt.

 _Brilliant plan Harry,_ Tom hissed, _Now he undoubtedly knows we have something to hide._

Meanwhile, Sirius scoffed. "There's one thing I've never done, and that's snitch on someone. I'm a bloody Marauder, kiddo. Besides, I never quite understood why James trusted the old man so much." Here, he looked at Harry very seriously. "You should never trust anyone that smart. Geniuses, you can't trust them as far as you can throw them."

Harry's eyebrows rose.

 _Very well. Tell him,_ Tom said flatly, managing to sound slightly relieved but incredibly unhappy. Either way, the fact that he was pleased to find someone else with little faith in Professor Dumbledore was evident.

Harry nodded slowly. "I kept it a secret because I didn't want anyone to know how I found the Chamber."

Sirius's eyes were wide and sparkling with eagerness. "And how did you find it?" he asked excitedly.

"I'm a parselmouth," Harry said lowly.

Harry had no idea what to expect; Remus was rather laid back and a dark creature himself, so his mild reaction was to be expected. After all, he 'knew what it was like to be blamed for something he didn't choose'. Sirius, however, was far more outspoken from what he could tell, and undoubtedly a 'wild card'; and sure enough, the man was visibly baffled, and for a good half a minute was stumbling over words.

But after getting over the initial shock, his expression did a 180 and he became very excited.

He leaned in close with a keen look on his face. "So...so...you could use snakes to spy on people, or pull pranks for you?"

"Er...I guess so."

Indeed, Sirius didn't seem to have it in him to be displeased with Harry about anything. When Harry told him about the incident with the Rememberal and all the times he had nearly died while playing quidditch, he didn't look disapproving, or even all that sullen about it.

"Brilliant! I mean, not the nearly dying part, but – brilliant! Youngest Seeker in a century! James would be so proud. I'll tell you what, Harry, when I get out of here, first thing I do – watch you play quidditch."

Even when Harry told him about the (carefully edited) incident with the Philosopher's Stone, Sirius showered him in awe rather than horror. He pulled him into a hug and whispered to him, "James and Lily would be so proud."

Remus, however, cleared his throat. "But they'd be very unhappy about you risking your life like that."

Needless to say, Harry found Remus and Sirius's differing opinions on things very amusing.

"He's a growing boy, Remus, he's going to screw up."

"Yes," Remus explained with infinite patience, "But we should be encouraging him _not_ to."

Yes, despite everything, Sirius seemed to be in excellent spirits, probably owing to the absence of dementors and presence of very attractive nurses in his life. That is, he _was_ in excellent spirits until he was assigned a new _mind healer_ , which, to the best of Harry's knowledge, was the equivalent of psychological therapist. The very name sent shivers down his spine.

It was a Saturday in mid April when they arrived at the hospital to find Sirius staring forlornly out the window, shoulders sagging and face ashen.

He sluggishly turned his gaze on them.

"Oh, Harry...I'm so, so, sorry," he said as soon as he saw him.

Harry looked at Remus, who looked very confused and concerned as well, and frowned. "For what?"

"For going after Peter, for leaving you, I should have stayed, for you..." the man whispered. For the first time since his trial, the man looked utterly defeated; he was pallid and his posture was weak, eyes glistening with tears.

Harry smiled bemusedly. "It's fine, really. I'm not your responsibility, Sirius..."

Sirius looked up at him miserably. "You are though."

"Umm..."

"No one's told you?"

Harry was frowning again. "No one's told me what?"

"I'm your godfather, Harry."

Harry's mouth fell open in shock. "You're my what?"

Sirius turned to Remus, looking rather betrayed. "I can't believe you never told him."

Remus only grimaced in return.

Meanwhile, Harry's mind was running at a mile a minute; again, not helped by Tom's running commentary.

 _If I remember correctly, godparents have guardianship rights in the event that a child is orphaned. If we live with him, we won't even need to ask about the elf – we will have unlimited access to it on our own, which completely eliminates one security risk,_ Tom was saying musingly, _And the Black Family's library...a treasure trove of dark magic tomes, no doubt – if we are to find information on soul magic in Britain, it will likely be there. Perhaps the muggles have outgrown their usefulness..._

Harry's heart leapt; even if Tom hadn't approved, he didn't think he could have kept the words from falling out of his mouth. "Does that mean I can live with you?"

Two sets of eyes landed on him.

"I mean...when you're out...do you have guardianship rights?"

Sirius looked at him sadly and nodded. "Yes, that's right...but as much as I'd love to take care of you...I really can't take you away from your family. Not after all this time. Perhaps they will-"

"They won't care," Harry blurted out.

Sirius smiled sadly. "I'm sure that's not -"

"They won't," Harry insisted, "They want me gone."

A few silent seconds ticked by.

"What do you mean, they want you gone?" Remus demanded of him.

Harry hesitated on reflex. "We don't...see eye to eye."

"On what?" Remus asked with a frown.

Sirius also looked a little disturbed by the comment; in fact, he looked even more troubled than Remus, which was something new. Indeed, the man had a look of pained reminiscence on his face, as though he was recalling some unpleasant memory.

"On, um, anything."

Remus's eyebrow rose. "Anything?"

Harry nodded slowly. "They don't like magic you see. And they dislike me even more."

Remus and Sirius both looked very unsettled at that. "What do you mean they don't like magic?"

"Oh, well, they call it... _freakish business_. They're...really unpleasant, and they _hate_ wizards."

"Harry," Remus began cautiously, "When you say _hate -_ "

"I mean utterly despise," Harry clarified. "If they had their way, they'd 'st-'" his breath caught in his throat, when he realized what he was about to say. It came from a memory, a very clear one; he was eight years old he'd just asked Uncle Vernon why he was always so mean to him - and the answer he got had made his blood run cold, his muscles tense up, and his mouth go dry. He was an impressionable eight year old at the time...you could hardly blame him. He'd never repeated the words out loud – he supposed he never did know for sure what would happen if the Dursley's ambition sounded a little too real in his ears. Tom had long ago informed him that it was impossible, that no one could steal his magic from him...but the thought was just too horrible to consider – to lose magic, to lose _everything –_ it was a fate worse than death. He'd rather _die_ ; he'd rather it all just _end_ \- anything would be better than that. Better than losing everything that made his life worth living. He'd give up anything, if it meant keeping his magic until his last breath.

But he was getting ahead of himself. Sometimes he hated the way his mind would run off on these tangents.

"They would 'stamp the magic out of me'," he continued, "At least, that's what Uncle Vernon claims. He hasn't really had much luck," he finished wryly, trying to lighten his tone at least somewhat.

Sirius's formerly depressed expression twisted into one of righteous fury. "And Dumbledore _left you there!?"_

"Well, he doesn't really know what's going on, and there are wards, you see-"

"Fuck the wards! I don't care about the bloody wards!" the man roared. "You shouldn't be living with people who hate magic! Who hate _you_!"

Harry stepped away marginally, caught off guard by the sudden eruption of ire. Apparently he had said just the right thing.

"Don't you worry, Harry, when I get out of here, you're living with me," Sirius said furiously.

Harry's heart leapt in his chest once again, and Tom seemed quite pleased in the back of his mind.

"Now Sirius," Remus warned cautiously, "It's not that simple. The Ministry might not want a young wizard living with someone who just got out of Azkaban."

Sirius scowled at him. "The healers say I'm nearly in perfect health, even the mind healers - this new one just jumped down my throat; the head healer even said he was out of line -"

"Even if you _are_ considered...somewhat eligible to adopt Harry, unless his...family are proved to be unsuitable guardians -"

 _Based on the data we have acquired from your mudblood friend, that should be a feasible task._

"I can take care of that," Harry agreed immediately.

Remus and Sirius stared at him.

"Leave it to me," Harry said resolutely, "As soon as you get out of here, Sirius, I'm coming to live with you. I'll make sure of it."

And he would. He had played his part well at the Dursleys, and in the end, his resolution not to follow through with his threats was going to pay off. His _family_ were under the impression that he let them lock him up and starve him (they _still_ hadn't figured out that Harry could unlock his bedroom door with ease and had a penchant for stealing their food), and while he had made some threats and lit a few things on fire (by _accident..._ kind of), he'd never done anything that would justify their irrational hatred of magic or incriminate himself. Even if someone viewed the Dursleys' memories, they'd find nothing that would incriminate Harry; they'd only find reason's to remove him from their care – as Tom said, after witnessing Hermione's relationship with her parents, and hearing his classmate's stories, that much was certain at this point. Harry wouldn't need to fabricate anything, not really, at least. He'd just have to tell his story, and leave out the bits where he'd managed to get around the Dursleys' mistreatment. All he had to do was tell the truth...and omit some things, like he was often wont to do.

So, the following Friday, Harry left his common room at 8 pm, and quietly made his way to the Hospital Wing.

There, he found Madame Pomfrey organizing potions on one of the shelves near the windows, and smiled slightly as he watched her diligently go about her task, oblivious to his presence.

"Madame Pomfrey."

The woman spun around, eyes widening when she saw Harry. "Harry! Is everything alright?"

"I..." Harry steeled himself. "I'm ready to talk."

* * *

Finally! So, what do you suppose will happen next?


	48. Poppy Pomfrey and Severus Snape

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, I still don't own Harry Potter. I wish I did, because I'm running out of money (damn the job market, damn life outside of grad school, just damn it all), but I don't.

* * *

 **Chapter 48: Poppy Pomfrey and Severus Snape**

When Harry Potter first came to Hogwarts, he was a shy boy with a quiet, polite demeanour; despite the unexpectedness of his behaviour, given who his father was, she had not been worried. Not by that alone, anyway. What had worried her was the fact the fact that he was a quiet, withdrawn boy who happened to have arrived at Hogwarts with a bad eyeglass perscription and some unexpected scars, looking more than a little underfed and uncared for. She had feared the worst, despite how consistently the boy denied it, and had been worried that he would have trouble adjusting, that he wouldn't fit in. The past two and a half years had proven that particular worry to be unfounded; the boy gained his bearings quickly, and had become well liked – even popular – over the course of his Hogwarts education. While still unassuming and quiet, Harry Potter now exhibited a kind of reserved confidence that was becoming of him to say the least, and at this point, she was starting to think that things really were alright.

That's why this was so unexpected.

The usually calm, composed boy was sitting before her now, pale and fidgetting and managing to look both anxious and distant, refusing to meet her eyes – a demeanor she wouldn't at all expect from him.

He had just entered the Hospital Wing claiming that he was 'ready to talk' – and upon hearing this, she was seized by a chill, for the boy could only mean one thing.

She had been right all along.

"I don't really know where to begin," he admitted quietly as he sat across from her on one of the infirmary beds.

She took a deep breath, allowing a long-practised calm to wash over her. "When did it start?" she asked evenly.

The boy shrugged, trying to disguise his unease with nonchalance. "I don't know...as long as I can remember, I suppose. I can't remember a time before they put me in my cupboard."

His _what_?

"Your...cupboard?"

The boy nodded. "My cupboard under the stairs. It's where they kept me, when I was a kid. There was a little mattress and some shelves and a light bulb in there," he explained evenly, still fixing his eyes on something right past her.

"Harry," she said slowly, "When you say a _cupboard_ , do you mean..." her voice trailed off.

"You know, a cupboard, for storing things in."

Suddenly she felt very cold. She had suspected some neglect, but to keep a child in a _cupboard_...

"Harry...do you still sleep there?"

Surely he wouldn't _fit_ anymore.

He shook his head. "No, I got my cousin's second bedroom when I was eight. I sleep there now."

"His _second_ bedroom?"

"Yeah, he has a lot of...stuff."

Oh for god's sake...

"Do you...like your new bedroom?"

He shrugged. "It's fine. There's a real bed and everything, a bookshelf and a desk too. But..." He paused. "There are lots of locks on the door, which is...conceptually unpleasant." The words were said with some degree of bitterness.

"Locks? On the...outside?"

"There are about seven I think..." he clarified with some reluctance.

"Harry," she began delicately, "Why would there be seven locks on your bedroom door?"

He frowned. "For when they need to lock me up," he said as though it should have been obvious.

But it wasn't obvious.

"Lock you up? Why?"

"They...don't really want me around."

"And why's that?"

"Well, because I...because I have magic."

"And why would that cause them to lock you up?" she asked softly.

"They...they're scared of magic," the boy answered slowly, "So when I started doing more accidental magic...they stopped punishing me in other ways, and just lock me up instead."

She stiffened a little bit, at the mention of the _other punishments_. "And what sort of other ways did they punish you?" she asked slowly.

"Well, it depends. For example...if I talked back or doddled or something when I was little, Aunt Petunia would smack me over the head with a newspaper -"

Like a _dog..._

"- it didn't hurt or anything, it was just sort of..."

Humiliating. Demeaning.

She gave him a moment before asking the glaring question left open by his explanation. "And if you did something that truly upset them?"

He blinked, gaze sharpening but still remaining fixed on the wall behind her. "Well if I did something really bad, like break something, then I'd get the belt – which isn't as bad as it sounds; Uncle Vernon didn't put much effort into it. Probably didn't think I was worth it." He paused. "Then no supper."

"They withheld food from you?" She chose to ignore the...belt aspect for now. It was not an uncommon punishment among more...authoritarian muggle households, but it never seemed less barbaric to her, and it never got easier to hear about, no matter how many times she heard it.

Meanwhile, the boy did not seemed displeased to be spared the painful memory, and seemed to relax a little when she failed to ask for more details. "...often. No food until I finish my chores – that's the rule."

"Do you have many chores?"

"I used to...I used to cook the meals...but now I really just garden and trim the lawn and wash dishes and clean the house from time to time."

So, a _yes,_ then. She took a deep breath. "Harry, you mentioned that they...lock you up. How long do they lock you up for?"

The boy shrugged again. "Sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few days – there's a cat flap on my door, so they can slip me meals...usually canned soup. But it depends on how much I upset them."

She closed her eyes and exhaled softly. These wretched muggles...they treated him like a prisoner, like an animal, and his freedom was contingent on _how much he upset them_. She wanted to place her hand on his shoulder; she wanted to ask him if he needed a hug; she wanted to tell him not to worry, that she'd never let them hurt him again. But she couldn't - not yet.

"And your wrist, Harry? And your ribs? Did they do that too?"

He shook his head.

She nearly sighed in relief.

"Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia aren't very bright, but they're smart enough not to hit me too hard. The breaks and bruises were always from Dudley, my cousin, and his friends – they used to play a game called 'Harry Hunting'." His jaw stiffened, and his gaze flickered down to his hands briefly, indicating...embarrassment? "They'd chase me, and...harass me when they caught me. I broke my wrist when I fell out of a tree while I was hiding from them, and they, er, made it worse, and my ribs...well, I don't know, I didn't realize they were fractured. I suppose it probably happened this one time when Dudley pushed me in front of a moving car. I was sore for a week."

Really, she didn't feel relieved at all, anymore.

"They don't play it anymore...once I started doing accidental magic more often, they got too scared of me."

Given the boy's talent, she supposed she shouldn't have been too surprised that accidental magic played such a great role in Harry's childhood. To have incidents severe enough to scare his relatives...his magic must have been strong, and must have manifested early...before the poor child had a chance to learn how to defend himself.

"How did your aunt and uncle react to your accidental magic?" she asked cautiously.

The boy's lips were pressed into a thin line for a moment – in a way that nearly reminded her of Minerva when she was displeased - before he answered jerkily, "They hate magic. They hate everything about it. They call me a freak...they call my magic _freakish business_."

The boy's voice went cold for a moment, and his emerald green eyes hardened, as though he was offended on behalf of his magic.

"It was always boy, or freak, never Harry." The words were brisk but his voice was cold and dull, a steady but slack grimace now fixed on his face. "They were scared, angry...they hit me, locked me up, tried to make it stop – I think they figured that if they made me feel bad enough, it would all stop..I think that's been the goal, all along. Uncle Vernon -" the name was said in an exceptionally dead voice "- he says..." The words seemed to catch in his throat, but his face betrayed no sentiment, and a moment later he continued in the same dead tone, "He said he was trying to stamp the magic out of me."

She suppressed a shudder when she heard those ominous words, and she knew she paled a few shades. "You know that's impossible, Harry, don't you?" she tried to reassure him, "They can't take your magic away from you. No one can."

He nodded curtly. "I know," he said shortly. "But it was still..." For a moment, his face froze entirely, before the austere countenance flickered, revealing behind it an expression that was so incredibly vulnerable. "My magic is...it's everything."

She paused, allowing his words, and more importantly, the tumultuous, strained voice he said them with, sink in.

The vulnerability in his face was replaced by austerity, once again, and she felt this terrible twisting in her chest.

"Do they scare you, Harry?" she asked softly.

His eyes darkened, and he almost looked angry. "Not anymore. I'm not scared of them. I'll never be. I'm stronger than they are." The words seemed to fall out of his mouth.

"You are, Harry – of course you are."

A grimace that was probably supposed to be a semblance of a smile ghosted across his face.

"Now, Harry," she began softly, "I have to ask..." it was more that she couldn't resist, because she really, _truly,_ wanted to know, "...why haven't you come to anyone for help? You must know...I would have helped you in a heartbeat, without a second thought."

She wasn't supposed to ask that. She shouldn't have done that. But nobody's perfect.

He looked at her strangely, clearly unsettled. "I didn't want to end up in an orphanage. Things could be a lot worse, there. I've read all sorts of horrible things about muggle orphanages."

Oh, the poor, poor child. He didn't say anything because he was afraid they would place him somewhere worse. And why wouldn't he be afraid? Bloody Albus Dumbledore was the one to sent him to his blasted muggle relatives in the first place.

"Harry, we wouldn't have sent you to an orphanage!" she couldn't keep her voice calm anymore, and she knew that pain and regret and shame were leaking into her words. "There are plenty of perfectly good magical families that would love to adopt you!"

The boy remained motionless in his seat, still looking very rigid, his eyes glassy and distant, no longer fixed behind her. Instead, he stared at nothing, and looked incredibly...adrift. "Oh."

She had to take a moment, to calm herself down.

"It could have been a lot worse," the boy asserted suddenly, his voice soft but firm and his eyes now more focused, as he clearly tried to console her. He finally met her gaze. "I...I'm not scared of them. They're just muggles. They can't hurt me. I'm better than they are. Stronger."

She stared at him, taking in the sight of his stiffly proud posture, feeling nothing but pity for this poor child, who at this moment seemed - to her eyes at least - so frail, and so alone. She couldn't help it – she reached over and took his slightly fidgeting left hand in hers, squeezing it lightly.

"You are, Harry, you're so very strong. I'm proud of you, so proud. You've done the right thing, coming to talk to me."

There was a long silence that followed her words – she didn't want to say anything else until she knew he'd acknowledged her affirmation, and he...he seemed wholly involved in the slow, arduous movement of his eyes to where her hand lay one top of his.

"Please don't make me go back." It sounded like a formal request; he delivered the words evenly. "I have no one there...nothing. They hate me." He paused, and swallowed. "...and I can't stand it there." Again, the austere expression flickered, and she saw something vulnerable underneath, some carefully restrained fear. "I can't stand it anymore. Please don't make me go back. I shouldn't - Sirius, he wants me to live with him, you see - it's better for everyone - they don't want me there either - and...and...and..."

She couldn't stand it anymore. She stood up and went to sit down beside him, pulling him into a strong embrace. She felt him stiffen in her arms, but she held on tight, closing her eyes as she felt his slow and restrained breaths growing gradually more rapid against her shoulder.

"I hate it there. I can't go back, not anymore. I hate it there...I hate it there..."

She held him closer as she felt his heart beating quicker under her hands.

"Shh...shh...don't worry dear. You're not going anywhere. I won't let them take you back, never. I promise you."

There was a pause, and for a moment, she thought he had stopped breathing.

"Thank you."

* * *

All her sadness had turned into righteous fury by the time she'd escorted Harry back down to the dungeons, where he'd quietly assured her he would be fine.

There was no way she was letting the poor boy go back to those vile relatives of his. No way. She'd kidnap him if necessary. Truly, she would.

"Poppy! You...are you well?"

She scowled viciously. "No Minerva! I am not _well_! Fetch Severus and meet me in the Headmaster's office. Immediately!"

And with that she left a gaping Minerva McGonagall in her wake and stalked off toward Albus Dumbledore's office. She felt a bit bad about yelling at Minerva like that, but she couldn't help herself – she was so angry. Angry at the Headmaster, angry at Severus, angry at herself. How could they have done nothing? Clearly something had been wrong. They knew that, and they did _nothing_. A _child_ had been _suffering_ all this time, because of their negligence, because they had foolishly overlooked the signs that were right there in front of them. They had done _nothing._ And it was their job to do something. What was the point of teaching if you can't even keep your students safe?

"Sugar quills," she nearly spat out when she reached the Headmaster's office.

"Ah, Poppy, what a pleasant sur-"

"Not now, Albus," she said furiously, beginning to pace.

She saw the Headmaster frown, but only slightly, looking vaguely concerned.

"Poppy...may I ask what's troubling you?"

"No, Albus, you may not. Minerva and Severus will be here in a moment, and I'm not going to explain myself more than once!"

The Headmaster accepted her answer silently, still looking somewhat concerned, but ultimately unfazed, as he always was.

Thankfully, they arrived only a few minutes later – thankfully, because her feet were getting sore from all the pacing.

Severus, of course, was scowling when he arrived.

"This had better be important," he said sourly, "I was in the middle of -"

"Shut up, Severus," she nearly growled, causing him to recoil in shock. "This is far more important than whatever the bloody hell you were doing!"

Severus was clearly taken aback, and looked uncharacteristically cowed by her harsh tone.

"Poppy," Albus said softly, his voice infuriatingly composed, "Why don't you tell us what the problem is?" She could tell his tone was meant to be placating, but it wasn't working.

She scowled at him, clearly indicating that she had no desire to be calmed down. "That's the thing! I shouldn't have to! We all saw the signs, we all knew something was wrong, and we did _nothing_. While we convinced ourselves that nothing was wrong, a child was _suffering_ at the hands of the people who were supposed to be taking care of him!"

Minerva looked alarmed at that. "Good gods, Poppy, who is this you're speaking of?"

"Harry Potter!"

The reaction was instantaneous. Minerva gasped, while the Headmaster's previously serene face hardened into an unreadable expression – something grim simmering below a carefully contained surface. And Severus...he sneered at the name.

"Come now, Poppy. We all know Potter wants to live with that insufferable fool he calls a godfather -"

"And with good reason! For god's sake, Severus, pull your head out of your arse for just one moment and think past that ridiculous grudge you insist on holding!"

He scowled at her, while looking a bit shocked at the language she was using. "And what could his aunt and uncle _possibly_ have done that is so terrible, Poppy?"

"They kept him in a cupboard under the stairs! A _baby,_ in a _cupboard_. He didn't get a proper room until he was eight years old!"

Minerva's hand rose to cover her gaping mouth, and Severus had now frozen in place.

But she wasn't done.

"They call him a freak - they're afraid of him! Of his magic! They lock him away for days at a time, feed him barely anything! They treat him like an animal! They're cruel, neglectful, vile people who have been punishing him for who he is his _entire life._ He told me – he told me that they say they're trying to _stamp_ the magic out of him!"

She looked around at everyone in the room. The Headmaster looked very grave indeed – but still, infuriatingly composed, the old bastard - and Minerva looked horrified. Meanwhile Severus...looked extremely conflicted.

"Poppy..." he said slowly, his voice betraying only the slightest emotion, "Are you sure that -?"

"That he's telling the truth?" she spat out, "I'd be willing to swear an Unbreakable Vow to tell the truth and say the exact same thing! I've been doing this a long time, Severus, a lot longer than you! Don't forget who treated _your_ cuts and bruises every year you arrived at Hogwarts! And don't think for a moment that I didn't know you were lying about where they came from!"

The man flinched at that, and she felt bad...but only a little. She knew Severus was keeping an eye on the boy, under Albus's orders; she knew he had observed more about Harry than anyone else - and yet, he continuously and willingly blinded himself to the sad reality which he insisted on ignoring because of a decades-old grudge. If anyone would have seen the signs of Harry's mistreatment - and she was sure there had been signs - Severus would have been the one to catch them; and yet, he had done _nothing._

"I know when a child is lying. And I knew," her voice broke, "And I knew he was lying, when he said he was alright, when he said everything was fine. He told me...his family loved him, but I could see it on his face, it was such a blatant lie – I can't believe I didn't do anything. I can't believe...we were all so foolish. He's been suffering silently, all this time, blatantly lying about what's been happening because he thought he was being strong."

"Poppy," Albus said softly, carefully, his voice wavering, sounding almost frail – at some point his expression had devolved into something much more tender; much more...human. "Do you know why he hasn't said anything?"

"What, aside from when he asked you if he could stay at Hogwarts during the summertime?"

She watched as he flinched – a reaction she never thought she'd see from Albus Dumbledore – and his eyes were suddenly far away, like he was recalling some distant memory. "Yes, aside from that."

She shook her head. "He thought...he thought that if we found out, we'd send him to an orphanage! I just can't believe...he can't go back there, Albus, he _cannot_. If you send try to him back – well, I'll resign and take him away myself, I can promise you that!"

The Headmaster shook his head, though, as she fully expected him to. "Your worries are unfounded, Poppy. I will not be sending the boy back." The man had regained control, and looked at them all firmly. "In fact, I will write to the Department of Magical Child and Family Services as soon as we are done here. No, Mr. Potter will not be returning to live with his relatives..." his voice grew low and very grim, "I can only hope that we are not too late to reverse whatever damage they have done." He paused. "Now Poppy, if you would, please tell us exactly what Harry said to you this evening."

* * *

Severus could hardly believe what he was doing.

It was a passably pleasant Sunday afternoon – a day before he'd have to face those wretched second year Gryffindors once again, the last few hours of glorious weekend that he had to himself before the whole sorry affair that was teaching burdened him once again – and what was he doing? Not enjoying a nice cup of darjeeling in his office; not brewing some fascinating new potion he read about in _The Journal of Experimental Potions and Herbology_ ; not doling out cruel and unusual punishments to whatever Gryffindor happened to set him off that week – no, he was doing something else entirely.

The previous night, he'd heard something he did not expect to hear. It was not entirely out of the blue, so to speak, but he had still never expected to hear it in earnest.

He might have been wrong. That's what he heard. He might have been very, very wrong. He might have overlooked some crucial detail; he might have misconstrued a situation; he might have misjudged someone very, very gravely. And he might have come frighteningly close to breaking the promise he could not afford to break; he might have come close to betraying the one thing that kept him alive, the one thing that made his life worth more than the sum of his mistakes.

He would admit, with reservation, to being unnerved, uneasy. And unease makes people do strange things.

Oh well, it was too late to go back, he thought despondently as he stood on the concrete doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

He knocked three times.

The whole place was disgustingly pristine – neatly trimmed lawn and white picket fence and everything. Alright, perhaps the white picket fence was an exaggeration on his part, but there might as well have been one, what with the contrived suburban perfection of it all. A neatly groomed rose garden lined the path from the driveway to the house – a rose garden, he could not help but recall, that Madame Pomfrey claimed Harry Potter tended to in the summertime in exchange for whatever meagre amount of food they were giving him.

A moment later, the door opened, and a saccharinely smiling woman answered. "Why, good aftern-"

Petunia Evans's pleasant smile bled off her face as soon as she saw him, and was replaced by fear.

"You..." she said with a quivering voice.

"Me," he confirmed, sticking his foot between the door and the door frame when she tried to shut it in his face. "Come now, Tuney, aren't you pleased to see your old neighbour? It's been _so_ long."

She was trembling, now. "What do you want?" she whispered.

He didn't answer. Did this cowardly woman really have the gall to abuse her own nephew?

He glanced inside; everything was clean, tidy, painted in white and pastel shades. The family was clearly well off, and they obviously didn't need Potter to do the housework if it was this clean while he was away. Perhaps Potter had been lying, when he told Madame Pomfrey about the housework he was expected to do. Perhaps it really wasn't so bad. But then his eyes travelled further inside, and caught sight of a small cupboard underneath the staircase – an inconspicuous door in and of itself, but after what he'd heard...

 _A baby in a cupboard_...Poppy's voice still echoed in his mind.

Something twisted deep within his stomach.

He pushed her aside, sweeping past her, and went to stand in front of the cupboard.

He inhaled steadily.

" _Alohomora."_

The cupboard latch clicked open, and slowly, the door creaked open. The inside was cluttered with shoes and cleaning supplies, and for a moment it seemed that everything was in order - but then he saw the shelves, the small wooden ones on the left side. Four toy soldiers - dark green and plastic - sat in the centre of the second shelf, two of the four knocked over, the other two pointing their weapons at each other; their presence was an uneasy one, and despite the layer of dust covering them, he could not help but think that they had the presence of something that did not belong. But what was truly chilling were the markings on the cobwebbed back wall of the cupboard - crooked, childlike words, the letters alternating between blue and green crayon.

 _Harry's Room_

He turned to glare at the woman, who had paled to an unhealthy yellow, by now.

" _Legilimens."_

Almost immediately he got what he needed – a memory of this horrid woman hitting a three or four year old Potter over the back of his head with a newspaper and tossing him into the cupboard, locking the door a moment later; another glimpse at a six or seven year old Potter cooking bacon and eggs, hunched over and standing dangerously on a kitchen chair in front of the hot stove; an image of her vile-looking husband, purple-faced and furious, grabbing Potter by his hair and shaking him vigorously.

He pulled out of her mind, sorely tempted to do some serious damage on the way out.

"Well, well, well, Tuney," he said, barely containing the fury building inside of him, "Child abuse? Your parents would be so proud."

He would have said more, but he couldn't. He was too...too...

He was furious. Furious at Potter for so diligently lying to them. Furious that this woman had had the audacity, the vileness of character, to lock dear, sweet Lily's boy, her own blood, in a cupboard. Furious that Albus had placed him here without a second thought. Furious at himself for doing nothing – the signs had all been there; underfed, emotionally reserved, manipulative yet socially awkward, desperate for approval...

From _day one_ something had been off. Since the beginning there were things, little things, that didn't add up. The boy was _wrong_ , something was _wrong_...and it had been _his_ responsibility to make sure that _nothing went wrong_. Poppy had been exactly correct. They had done _nothing_. And he had come far too close to failing in the only thing that made his life worth living.

But perhaps most infuriating of all was the fact that he couldn't feel anything but pity for James Potter's son now; now, he could not hate the boy – only empathize with him, and resent him because of it. Empathize with this poor, unhappy child that, now that he thought about it, reminded him in so many ways of himself.

Bloody Potters.

He turned back to Petunia Evans – no, Dursley – and scowled viciously at her. "You will hear from Child Services within a week, I imagine. In the meantime, o _bliviate."_

* * *

"Ah, Potter, come in," he enunciated blankly, as the boy knocked on the door, "Close the door behind you."

The boy did so, and then proceeded to walk toward his desk, eyes resting warily on the man sitting across from him. The boy held out his hand. "Harry Potter, sir."

The man shook it with a small smile. "Andrew Fletcher, Mr. Potter, from the Department of Magical Child and Family Services at the Ministry of Magic."

Understanding dawned on the boy, as he cautiously looked between him and Fletcher.

"Sit down, Potter," he said with a sigh, knowing the boy wouldn't do so unless invited.

"Yes sir."

For the first time, it occurred to him that Potter's soft and smooth enunciation of 'yes sir' truly was free of any disdain or reviling or pride – it was simple and genuine. It was like he was hearing the boy's voice for the first time.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

The boy stared at him for half a second, as though he was somehow aware of his revelation, before he glanced at Fletcher, nodding slowly. "I think so, sir."

"Excellent," he said blandly, briskly, "Your conversation will be with Mr. Fletcher, here. I am here merely because I am required to be by law. My presence is of no consequence."

Another slow nod. "I understand."

"Now, Mr. Potter," Fletcher said, "Is it alright if we get started?"

"Of course, sir."

"Wonderful. Now, I want to say first – if this is at all difficult for you, Mr. Potter, please do let me know, and we can take a break, as many times as you need."

He resisted rolling his eyes in disdain. Potter wasn't an _infant;_ even he had always acknowledged that.

"I think I'll be fine, sir."

"Well, no shame if you're not. Now, how old are you Mr. Potter?"

"Thirteen, sir."

"And how long have you lived with Vernon and Petunia Dursley, at Number 4 Privet Drive, in Surrey?"

"Since I was a year old."

"And how would you describe your care there?"

How blunt – but then again, that was probably best where Potter was concerned.

The boy hesitated. "...less than satisfying."

Trust Potter to make this difficult. Though...were he in the boy's place, he doubted his answer would have been much different. He scolded himself when he realized he was comparing Potter to himself...again.

Meanwhile, Fletcher just smiled sympathetically. "Would you mind elaborating, Mr. Potter?"

"...what would you like to know, sir?"

"Well, why don't we start with...what are your living quarters like?"

"I have a bedroom now."

Fletcher glanced at the file hovering beside him. "My understanding is that this wasn't always the case."

"I used to live in a cupboard under the stairs."

Despite how many times he'd heard that fact now – despite seeing the cupboard with his own eyes - it still sounded so very...foreign in his ears.

Fletcher nodded simply, though, writing something down in a notebook. "And do you like where you live now?"

The boy pursed his lips. "Well, there are lots of locks on my door, but it's alright."

"Locks on the inside, or outside?"

"Outside."

Fletcher, unfazed, scratched out another note. "Now...my understanding is that the school matron has at certain points given you nutritional supplements. How do they feed you?"

"Not particularly well. I only really get to eat after I do my chores."

The man jotted down a few more notes in his notebook. "And have you ever been deprived of a meal involuntarily?"

"Oh yes, sir, loads of times."

"And what's the longest you'd say you've gone without food?"

"Um, maybe a couple of days, sir?"

He could barely contain the grimace that nearly came over his face. No wonder the boy was so thin.

"I see. And..." he glanced at his notes, "Do you eat your meals with your relatives?"

"Not usually. They'd rather not have to look at me while they eat. Besides, I've not always finished all my chores by the time they sit down for supper."

"And are you always required to finish all your chores before you eat?"

"Oh yes, of course -"

The boy said it as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"- I can't have any dinner until I earn it."

The boy obviously didn't notice the slip – using present tense instead of past. Fletcher clearly noticed, because he frowned and jotted down a couple more lines.

"And how much work do you typically do for your relatives?"

"It depends. I used to do a lot more. Now I just tend to the garden and the lawn, and clean the floors and the dishes. They won't let me cook meals for them anymore, except when they're really busy."

"And why's that?"

The boy stifled a smirk. "They probably think I'll infect it with my freakishness."

"Your...freakishness?"

"Yes, you know," his voice grew notably heavier, "My magic." His expression suddenly veered toward blank, disguising a steady uneasiness growing beneath the surface.

Now he really did grimace. The expression was all too familiar.

"And...your relatives call your magic...freakishness?"

The Potter boy nodded jerkily. "That, or freakish business."

Fletcher paused, and then scratched down a few more notes. "And...how do your relatives feel about magic, Mr. Potter?"

"They hate it." There was literally no emotion in the boy's voice when he said that, and he was uncomfortably reminded of the toneless nature that his own voice often took on.

"Would you...mind elaborating?"

"They say its unnatural and horrible, and they think they can stamp it out of me, if they try hard enough. It hasn't worked so far, though, so I don't think they're holding their breath."

The words were mechanical, mingled with only the slightest wry tone to indicate that they were meant to sound amusing.

Incidentally, neither he, Fletcher, nor Potter were especially amused at the moment.

"I see." A few more notes were jotted down. "And how did your relatives react to accidental magic, Mr. Potter?"

"It depends on what I did, sir."

"Well...what about something very minor, like...levitating an object, or changing the colour of an article of clothing?"

The Potter boy looked exaggeratedly thoughtful, all the while appearing visibly troubled, and it occurred to him now that Potter was now putting on a show. Poppy had narrated for them the conversation she'd had with the boy, which she described as nothing less than 'heartbreaking' – it was apparently clear that he had at some brief moments lost control when put to the task of verbalizing the...abuses he had suffered. But he suffered no loss of control now. Perhaps he was now embarrassed by what he felt was a moment of weakness...perhaps he felt the need to feel unaffected.

Which he understood.

"No dinner, I suppose. Maybe a smack over the head and a lecture."

"And something much more significant?"

"Well," the boy said heavily, "If I did anything _really_ freakish, I'd get the belt."

He frowned, but only slightly. He still vividly remembered how that felt.

Meanwhile, Fletcher looked _very_ sympathetic. It was almost revolting how much false pity was on the man's face. Really, the whole thing was just...sickening. They were both clearly putting on a show, playing their parts perfectly.

"I see...are you alright Mr. Potter? Do you need to take a break?"

"That depends, sir...do I have to go back to my relatives?"

The question was both decidedly Slytherin and un-Slytherin.

"I think it's safe to say that you will not, Mr. Potter."

The boy nodded slowly. "Then I'm fine."

That infuriating child...

Fletcher cleared his throat quietly. "Very well then. I think it is safe to say, Mr. Potter, that Mr. and Mrs. Dursley are unsuitable guardians."

Potter nodded slowly again, looking extraordinarily unsurprised. "So...what happens now?"

Fletcher glanced over at the file. "I will discuss your case with my colleagues at the Department of Magical Child and Family Services, and we will then approach the appropriate muggle authorities with a carefully edited version of your case. They will handle things with your relatives from there. In the meantime, I understand that your godfather has recently been released from Azkaban prison, and would like to take custody of you."

The Potter boy nodded quickly, unable to disguise his eagerness.

While his stomach squirmed with disgust at the mention of Black, Fletcher seemed to find the boy's enthusiasm endearing, and smiled at him.

"Since he is you godfather, he _does_ have guardianship rights...but his recent release complicates things, as he will need to undergo extensive therapy before he is fit to raise a child. This could take several months, maybe even a year -"

"Sirius said he'd work really hard. That he'd be out of St Mungo's in no time, that he's almost ready," the boy blurted out, blushing immediately after.

Fletcher smiled again, sympathetically. "And I'm sure that is true. However, there is a strong possibility that he will not be released before your term at Hogwarts ends."

"Then...do I get to stay here?" the boy asked hopefully.

Fletcher shook his head. "Your temporary living arrangements will most likely also be dealt with by the muggle authorities."

The boy visibly paled at that. "You mean...they'll put me in an orphanage? Or foster care?"

Fletcher paused. "That is a possibility."

Severus froze. That was...not acceptable. Potter's position was already a precarious one with the absence of the blood wards that had protected him up until recently. Placing Potter unprotected in a muggle household simply was not acceptable.

Meanwhile, Potter suddenly looked very closed off. "But...isn't there another way?" he asked rather pathetically.

Fletcher paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "I could put in a request. You must understand, Mr. Potter, that this is not something we often encounter; your case is a unique one, because you have no living relatives. Usually, an aunt, uncle, or cousin would take temporary guardianship, but that is not a possibility in your case. In fact, I am personally not aware of any cases where a young witch or wizard in need of temporary guardianship was not taken in by either a family member or the muggle authorities; the Department of Magical Child and Family Services is a very small department, and we rely on the muggles to do a great deal of our legwork for us in cases like this. That being said, I will check to see if there have been any similar cases that we handled without muggle interference, and I'll consult my colleagues on the matter."

Potter looked immensely dissatisfied. "Can't I just stay with my friends? I know that my friends Theo and Draco both have really big houses."

Severus stifled a grimace. Leaving Potter in the indefinite care of a Death Eater was certainly not acceptable either - Albus seemed to believe that establishing contact between the Malfoys and Potter would be a positive influence on both, but guardianship was a whole other matter. No, this situation was quickly devolving. He needed to step in soon.

"It's a bit more complicated than that, Mr. Potter. You need a guardian - you can't simply live with whomever you choose. They would have to go through a process very similar to adoption."

"But -"

"Am I right in assuming that a teacher would be able to take temporary guardianship of Potter without having to go through an adoption process?" he cut in.

Fletcher blinked. "Well, some paper work would need to be done, but that would certainly be the simplest solution indeed."

He nodded curtly. "Then I will discuss this matter with my colleagues, and we will contact you directly once we have decided on a temporary guardian for Potter."

Potter was staring straight at him with wide eyes, face carefully blank - but if he looked closely enough, he could see immense relief in the boy's posture.

Meanwhile, Fletcher was nodding and rapidly jotting down notes. "Yes, excellent. I'll ready the paper work, and we'll be in touch."

He nodded curtly, sparing a glance at Potter, who was now looking at him with open gratitude.

Crisis averted. For now.

* * *

Yeah, I know, if this were real life, there would be something about Harry being a ward of the State - but let's just pretend things are different in the magical world for the sake of drama.

Anyway, what do you think about the turn of events?


	49. The Fallout

**Disclaimer:** I'm still poor. Ergo, I don't own Harry Potter.

 **AN:** Hey, so, I'm really sorry that I missed a week. I was away visiting friends, and I thought I could get this posted, but it turns out that this chapter really, really hates me and I kind of hate it and I just wasn't happy with it Tuesday night and then I had to choose between rewriting it and prepping for an interview, and...ugh. Yeah. So, here it is. Can't say I'm especially pleased with it, but at least it's here.

On that note, you might have noticed that it's a Sunday. I have another interview Wednesday, so I decided to just put this up today. I guess I'll be posting on Sundays for now.

* * *

 **Chapter 49: The Fallout**

 _7:42_

Harry stared at his watch musingly, considering his options. He could lie in bed for a half hour and go to breakfast with everyone else (well, maybe longer - it _was_ a Saturday, after all), or he could get a head start on his day and make his way to the library.

"What do you think, Tom? Bed or library?"

Predictably, Tom scoffed at him. _I do believe you already know the answer to that, you lazy child._

"Well, yes, but just consider this - I might perform better with a bit of extra sleep."

 _Perhaps, were you to actually sleep. But that is not what will happen. You will lie here with your eyes closed and your mind busy, and before long your muddled disaster of a brain will dream up some sort of inane quandry for you to resolve, at which point I will be either forced to endure disgusting sentiments such as concern or guilt, or else I will be roped into answering pointless philosophical questions or other idle inquiries._

Harry blinked. "You know me so well, Tom."

 _You are the window through which I see the world. I have located all the cracks and smudges at this point,_ Tom said wryly.

"Fair enough."

He closed his eyes, sighing as he stretched his limbs, before sitting up briskly. "Ok, I'm up."

Quietly, he rose from his bed and picked up his uniform, which sat neatly folded at the edge of his bed, as always, and once he'd double checked to make sure everything was there, he cautiously slipped out his dorm room door and headed to the showers. No one seemed to be using any of the rooms yet, so he stepped in unimpeded, placed his uniform on the counter, and peeled off his pyjamas before stepping under the hot water which had immediately begun raining down from the ceiling of swirling rain clouds when he stepped into the green tiled area at the far end of the room. A few minutes later the water was replaced by what he had always assumed was some sort of hypoallergenic soap solution which by some feat of magic didn't burn your eyes or taste awful - it tasted vaguely like mint tea, actually - which was a few minutes later replaced by water once again.

The whole process took precisely 10 minutes - he'd heard from Hermione that the girls' showers took 13 minutes, due to the challenge of washing long hair, which Harry was sure was absolutely dreadful (he didn't know why they bothered to grow it out, because he'd done the cost-benefit analysis, and the numbers didn't seem to add up) - and when it was finished he found himself dry again (oh how he loved magic). Afterwards, he hurried to dress himself, and then did battle with his hair, admitting defeat but a few minutes later. And after giving up, he set off.

 _8:05_

As he passed through the Slytherin Common Room, which was still empty, he took a moment to glance up at the ceiling, observing the fervent rippling standing between the transparent ceiling of the Common Room and what appeared to be a cloudy sky overhead – perhaps a storm was coming, he thought idly as he slipped out the entrance way.

The dungeons were silent as he passed through them.

 _8:17_

When he arrived at the library, Madame Pince looked at him with disinterest, utterly unsurprised to see him. He greeted her pleasantly nonetheless, and set about his task. The night before he'd finished reading _Warding Techniques of the Americas Volume I,_ and was now off to find _Volume II_ before breakfast. He was still scouring the Hogwarts library's more obscure selections on warding, hoping to find something simple enough that the Order could master it before the term was up; they'd had limited success so far - Remus claimed that this was because wards were very delicate pieces of magic and young witches and wizards have very unstable magical cores, but Harry wasn't about to give up.

It took him at least a solid 20 minutes to locate _Volume II –_ he couldn't quite seem to remember exactly where he picked up _Volume I -_

 _Woe is me, trapped in the head of an absentminded fool._

\- but he still couldn't resist sitting down in a corner and flipping through the table of contents and the index, so he was later than he originally expected when he finally left the library, and he was starting to feel a bit peckish. Needless to say, he was greatly anticipating his arrival in the Great Hall, where Theo would no doubt be waiting with a bowl of strawberries.

 _8:51_

That is, he was greatly anticipating it until he actually got there. When he arrived, several sets of eyes fell on him, and those that noticed him nudged at whoever was beside them, alerting them as well to his presence. He found himself freezing under the sudden and very intense attention; soon an alarming number of his fellow Hogwarts students – and most of the teachers – were staring at him. It took him a moment to regain his bearings, but after a deep breath, he slowly and cautiously made his way over to the Slytherin table, where he was met with a puzzling sight.

Daphne appeared to be in tears, Millicent was pale in the face, and Tracey looked extremely unsettled. Even Pansy was staring at him in shock. Crabbe and Goyle looked more confused than usual, but Draco looked extraordinarily troubled and had an expression indicating realization on his face. Really, Zabini was the only one acting normal – staring at Harry with an unreadable gaze that clearly said, 'I know more than you do'. Even several of the upper years had joined in on the puzzling behaviour; Clara Rosier looked truly unhappy, the Carrow twins were whispering to each other with dark looks on their faces. All his teammates wore expressions that ranged from shock to bewilderment to pity. Even Marcus Flint looked rather grim – a sight he never thought he'd see - and Avery was staring at him with a nearly blank expression, only subtly undermined by something unreadable yet somehow...kind?. The majority of his housemates, however, were just staring at him critically, leaving him feeling like some sort of biopsy sample under a microscope.

Confusedly, with a feeling of dread creeping up inside of him, he turned to a pale-faced Theo, who wordlessly handed a copy of the Daily Prophet to him.

It was right there, on the front page.

 _THE BOY WHO LIVED IN THE CUPBOARD UNDER THE STAIRS?_

 _by Miranda Thistlebaum_

 _Undisclosed sources within the Department of Child and Family Services at the Ministry of Magic have revealed to the Daily Prophet a startling fact: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the child responsible for the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is being removed from the home of his Muggle relatives on grounds of child abuse._

 _Potter's case worker describes him in his report as a "quiet, calm young wizard who, despite his unfortunate past, has managed to maintain a pleasant demeanour and top grades in his year." The report goes on to say that Potter is, in general, well-regarded amongst his teachers and peers and excels in both academics and sports; to all, Harry Potter might seem a well-adjusted, normal young wizard, shaped by an average, if not healthy upbringing._

 _But this pleasant picture belies the truth; that Potter has been concealing years of systematic abuse at the hands of his mother's sister and her Muggle husband, who were, in Potter's own words, "Trying to stamp the magic out of him"._

 _Our sources say that not only was the young boy starved, beaten and locked away for days at a time, but was, until recently, forced to live in a small cupboard under the stairs of his Muggle relatives' home._

 _How did he come to live with such vile Muggles, you might ask? Who condemned him to a childhood of misery? There is a lack of any legal records regarding Harry Potter's placement after the tragic death of Lily and James Potter, but what little the Daily Prophet has been able to uncover points at one person in particular – Albus Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore, our sources say, was responsible for releasing Harry Potter into the hands of his abusers, and it is Albus Dumbledore that we must turn to, now, when we ask how such a tragedy ever came to be._

 _More on page 3B_

Harry was frozen, shock penetrating through him like an icicle impaling him through the chest. They knew. Everyone knew. His secret – proof of how weak he once was, the past he buried every time he boarded the Hogwarts Express...everyone knew now. Now, he'd never truly escape it. It wasn't done anymore. It wasn't over. They wouldn't let it be over.

How could they have found out? He'd told Madame Pomfrey, she'd told the Headmaster, and he'd informed Professor Snape and contacted the Department of Magical Child and Family Services, and the rest...wasn't it supposed to be confidential? Wasn't it supposed to be private? Hidden? Silent?

He absently noticed Tom ranting about incompetent Ministry workers in his head.

"Harry?!"

He only barely heard Theo call his name, but as soon as his awareness snapped into place, he noticed that the newspaper in his hands had burst into flames.

Several cups at the Slytherin table exploded.

Unfazed by the burns that were eating at his hands, he crumpled the burning news paper up and threw it furiously on the ground, ignoring the shouts around him as he stalked off, face carefully blank but eyes alight with something hot and consuming.

Once he left the Hall, he started to run, and run, and run, a single thought - a voice that was clearly his, no trace of Tom in it - running through his mind over and over again.

 _It's not over. It will never be over._

He had wanted nothing more than to put his life in the muggle world behind him – to pretend it never happened. He had been waiting _for years_ to say that final goodbye, and prove himself a superior being by paying the Dursleys the ultimate disrespect – he was going to forget them. He was going to pretend they never existed. He was going to remove them from his reality. He'd already constructed it – a little cupboard in his mind, a place where he could store every painful, humiliating memory from his childhood; he'd lock them up just like he'd been locked up...and then he'd throw away the key.

It was _his_ past. They were _his_ memories, and now they were smeared all over the front page of the Daily Prophet and multiplied and scattered, and he'd never find them all. They would remain unburied.

Just as he reached the seventh floor he was seized by a burning hatred for Miranda Thistlebaum – a picture flooded his mind, of some generic woman his mind decided to assign as the faceless reporter, lying on the ground, heart ripped out and burning, eyes wide open and fearful, dead. It was little consolation.

 _Give me a place no one can find me in,_ he thought furiously as he paced in front of a certain wall in the seventh floor corridor. Sure enough, in moments an enormous door had formed, which he wasted no time in slamming shut behind him.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his breathing. He failed.

"GAHHH! NO!" he screamed, pacing in circles. "No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!"

Furiously, he plunged his blistering hands into his pockets , pulling his wand out. He was gripping it so tight that his knuckles were white and his hand was shaking.

He wanted to cast a spell. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted...he wanted...

His mind was a torrent of grief and panic and rage – not a single coherent thought formed; no spells crawled to the tip of his tongue.

But that was fine, he knew – he didn't have to think to cast magic; he didn't have to think to destroy things.

A moment later, fiendfyre was roaring around the room, devouring anything that dared stand it its way.

* * *

Harry blinked blearily, wincing as he slowly rose from the stone floor he had woken on.

"Wha' happened?"

Instantly, sharp pain bolted through his head, giving him the distinct feeling of his skull being cracked open.

 _You foolish boy. Your fiendfyre nearly consumed us - I had to take control and extinguish it! Do you have_ any _idea what you have done? We have_ never _been in more danger – that could have been our end. And all because you could not reign in your temper, you foolish, foolish little boy._

Harry winced, gripping his pounding head in his shaking hands, which were hurting much more than he remembered.

"I'm sorry, Tom," he whispered, "I don't know what...I just...I was so angry...but not just...it _hurt._ I couldn't...I just needed to...to...I...just...I..."

Tom said nothing, but the pain ebbed away.

"I..." Harry's voice broke, "I'm never going to escape it, now...they'll never let me forget. All I wanted...was to leave them behind, never think of them again, but now everyone knows...how _weak_ , how _pathetic_ , how _powerless_ I am...and I...I just can't stand it..."

There was a long pause, before Tom's uncharacteristically quiet voice echoed through his mind, free of the menace it usually commanded. _You are not powerless._

There was another brief pause.

 _You are not powerless. You have not relinquished control._

"But I have!" Harry cried, "I had a plan, you know I did. I was going to wash it all away. Clean slate. The _muggles –_ they would be nothing, _nothing._ But now they're something and they will always be something. For _years_ they controlled me, and for once I was going to control them. But now it's gone and -"

 _You had a vision for the future; you were going to shape yourself and your world – control your life and being. You believe you can no longer do this. You feel you have lost control._

"Yes," Harry whispered brokenly.

 _And what do we do when we lose control, Harry?_

"I don't know."

Harry could feel Tom starting to get irritated, and a slightly throbbing headache had returned. _Yes you do, Harry. Free yourself of this self pity and_ think.

Harry grimaced and took a deep breath. "We take it back."

 _Exactly._

"But I can't, Tom! I can't _obliviate_ every single reader of the Daily Prophet – it's impossible."

 _Of course it is. But that does not mean we cannot use these circumstances to our advantage._

Harry scowled, despite himself. "How could this possibly be used to our advantage, Tom?"

There was a pause. _Do you recall, Harry, what I told you those weeks ago in the conclusion of our discussion on the war?_

Harry nodded slowly. "About how even if you had remained in power and managed to take control of the Ministry, you wouldn't have been able to control it for long?"

 _That is correct. Do you remember why?_

"Because even if everything would have gone well in the beginning, there would have been uprisings in the future, because the backlash against the policies and laws you'd have put in place would be so strong," Harry said, feeling exceptionally confused.

 _Precisely. The witches and wizards of Wizarding Britain were not ready to accept the changes I would have put in place. Too many would have stood united against me. In those days, I was adamant; in those days, I refused to acknowledge one very important fact – the world cannot be changed if it is not ready to be change; I have considered this often over the past ten months. Transformation and control achieved by force and fear alone would require resources I do not have – I realize this now. Which is why, once I am free from my prison and ready to take what should be mine, we will not terrorize the Wizarding World; we will not wage war on it. We will not spark a rebellion of a select few._

"We start a revolution."

 _Yes, Harry, very, very good._ Tom sounded immensely pleased. _We destabilize the Wizarding World and call into question the Ministry of Magic, breeding sympathy for the ideals of our cause – we leave the witches and wizards of Britain in a sea of doubt, and then introduce a catalyst; an event that will turn unrest into chaos. It is then that we will make ourselves known; a bulwark of strength and security in tumultuous times. And since many will already sympathize with our ideals, they will flock to us, and we will take control with finesse and subtlety._

Harry's mouth parted in awe. "Brilliant." He frowned, then. "Wait, what does this have to do my privacy being violated?"

 _We must put our plan into action as soon as possible; if this is to be done correctly, we must start immediately._

Harry scowled. "That doesn't answer my question, Tom!"

 _But it does, Harry. Think about what the Daily Prophet article said._

"That I was hit and lived in a cupboard under the stairs," Harry said flatly.

 _Come Harry, I know you can do better than that_. There was some menace in Tom's voice; he was clearly displeased with Harry's attitude.

"Well...that my relatives were trying to get rid of my magic...implying that they hated magic, and hurt me because of it." Harry's eyes widened. "It paints muggles in a bad light, and suggests that putting witches and wizards in the care of muggles is a bad idea."

 _And?_

"That Professor Dumbledore is to blame for what happened to me."

 _Precisely._

Harry nodded. "Ok, alright – I get it." He withdrew his diary, quill, and inkwell from his pocket. "So which ideas do we need people to sympathize with?"

 _The eradication of muggles,_ Tom said immediately.

Harry scowled. "I'm trying to be serious here, Tom."

 _And I am also._

Harry sighed. "That won't work."

 _If done correctly it will._

"No, it won't," Harry said forcefully. "Most people aren't ok with genocide, Tom. They'll never be ok with that. That's just how people work. Trust me on this."

 _This is not up for debate, Harry._

Harry sighed. "Can't you at least, just, put it on hold? You're going to live forever, Tom, you've got plenty of time to turn wizardkind against muggles entirely. I think pushing it too early is a really bad idea." Hopefully, given time to reconsider, Tom would drop the idea altogether. Because Harry didn't know if he would ever be able to stomach genocide.

 _That is...reasonable,_ Tom conceded, _I agree._

Harry nearly sighed in relief. "What's a more achievable goal?"

Tom was silent for a moment. _The total isolation of the Wizarding World._

Harry nodded slowly. "I think we can work with that. Argue that with muggle technology it's getting easier and easier for them to discover us...but that's irrelevant, I can't address that now...either way, the main challenge there is muggleborns. But -" Harry put in quickly, "I'm not alright with killing muggleborns, Tom, I'll never be."

Tom paused. _I admit, my original position on muggleborns might have been too hasty. Both your mother and Miss Granger have proven to be talented witches despite their blood, and Miss Granger in particular has the potential to be very useful._

Harry's mouth dropped open – Tom had _never_ referred to Hermione as anything other than 'the mudblood'.

 _If muggleborns are raised in the wizarding world then their existence is no longer a security threat, and I would consider their presence...acceptable._

Harry nodded slowly. "So...we need to convince people that it's not acceptable to let muggles raise magical children."

 _That will be our point of entry. It would both encourage isolation and breed mistrust in muggles and the Ministry of Magic's policies._

"Alright, so...I...write a letter to the Daily Prophet. I say that this is bigger problem than just me, that there are lots of other witches and wizards who have been hurt by muggles. I say that it's our responsibility to make sure that things like that don't happen, and suggest that the Ministry of Magic should be doing this, but it doesn't."

 _Yes, yes, very good Harry. This is also an excellent opportunity to discredit Dumbledore._

Harry hesitated, considering this carefully. "I'm not actually sure that's a good idea."

 _And why is that?_ Tom sounded very displeased.

Harry pursed his lips. "Making an enemy of Professor Dumbledore will alienate a lot of people – a lot of powerful people. I don't think that's very smart at this point. And we don't want Professor Dumbledore paying more attention to us. Not yet. I think we should wait. " He paused. "And who knows, maybe he'll just die on his own before he becomes a problem."

Tom was silent for a moment. _Yes, I agree. Drawing Dumbledore's attention to us at this point would be unfortunate indeed._

Harry nodded. "So...I write a letter, then."

 _Yes._

"Er, what should I say?"

 _I will not concern myself with that. I leave this task to you, Harry._

Harry's mouth fell open. "M-me?"

 _The letter must seem...innocuous. Sincere. Moreover, it must be consistent with what you will write and say from now on. We have discussed the content, but I will give you leave to decide on the rest._

Harry nodded shakily. "Al-alright. I, um, I won't let you down, Tom."

 _I know you won't._

* * *

Writing a letter was one of the simpler tasks Tom had assigned to Harry – it shouldn't have been difficult at all. It wasn't...until he realized partway through his writing process that he was actually writing political propaganda, and when Harry actually thought about this, he realized that he really had no idea how to feel about it. Sure, he'd told Hermione that he was interested in 'teaching or politics', but when he said 'politics', he'd more meant 'helping Tom out'. He actually knew nothing about politics. Well, not nothing – but what little he did know, he didn't like.

Harry hadn't thought much about politics...he always had other things on his mind. He thought a great deal about truth and power and justice, but that's not what politics was – politics was _people._ And people...they were the _other –_ it had always been Tom and him, and everyone else. Even Hermione and Theo, they were seperate, _other_ , set apart and divided, trapped on the other side of a glassy film that had been there as long as he could remember.

Politics dealt with the _others_ , and he had always accepted as a statis quo, a constant. Besides, in his comic books, politicians were often the bad guys, the ones impeding progress and thwarting justice, corrupt and unenlightened.

There was a huge disconnect, he realized, between talking with Tom about wars and revolutions and taking over the Ministry of Magic, and imagining himself actually doing it. It was so easy to talk about people like _objects,_ to focus on their _otherness,_ picking apart their behaviours and predicting their actions – it's how Tom taught him to see the world. But when he thought about real life – about the things that happened to him every day – it didn't seem to match up. He could do it, of course – do that thing where he carefully chose his actions based on how everyone else would react, trying to tailor those reactions to his own needs – but it wasn't something he felt good about. It made him feel insincere and unkind and just...far away from other people. It made him feel alone.

But that's what politics was, according to Tom, at least. It was about manipulating people into giving you power. It was about saying things that made people believe you have their best interests at heart...

But what if he really did? What exactly did he think he was doing wrong?

He wasn't going to lie; he wasn't going to coerce people into doing anything harmful - no, he wasn't, it was for their own good. He would write the truth – he would enlighten them. He would show them where they had strayed, where the wizarding world had gone wrong, and he would craft words that, if taken to heart, would spare thousands of other children from the fate he and Tom had suffered. He would remain polite, even, and passive – but he would be clear, he would be adamant that something needed to change. Tom was right, this was an opportunity...not only to further Tom's plans, but also to turn his misfortune into something that could benefit everyone. And maybe, just maybe, if he spun it right, people would forget about his past, and think about their future instead.

Yes, if he succeeded, Harry's Potter's tragic tale would be the least of their worries.

He could get past this. He had to.

Maybe he wasn't doing anything wrong. Maybe politics wasn't a constant – maybe it was a collection of variables, waiting to be assigned a value. Politicians had _power_ – a different kind of power, but power nonetheless – which could be wielded for both good and evil. So maybe he could use politics to do something good, to make the world a better place. Perhaps by having power over others, he could transform them into better people. He could do real, concrete good in the world.

He could be good.

He could be redeemed.

And it was about time that he proved himself to be a good person.

* * *

He finished writing his letter Sunday morning, and made his way to the owlery under his invisibility cloak – he wasn't willing to face any of his classmates or teachers until he'd completed his damage control. If all went to plan, Ms. Thistlebaum would be publishing his letter in the Daily Prophet on Monday morning, and he could rejoin his classmates before classes started. Until then, he would camp out in the Room of Requirement.

When Monday morning rolled around, he was starting to feel a bit nervous, and ended up casting at least seven cleaning charms on his uniform to distract himself. Once the clock struck 8:05, he decided it was time to go face the music.

When he entered the Great Hall, far too many eyes fell on him once again. Once again, he was met with shock as he approached the Slytherin table, and once again, he was offered the morning paper by a wide-eyed Theo. But this time, he took it with grace. This time, he sat down confidently at the table, this time, he read the article published on the front page and felt nothing but satisfaction.

 _THE BOY WHO LIVED RESPONDS!_

 _By Miranda Thistlebaum_

 _Imagine my surprise when, a day ago, I found a letter in my office from none other than Harry James Potter, who felt it necessary to respond to the article I published Saturday morning. Rather than try to recapture this brave young man's eloquent response, with his permission, I am publishing the letter he sent me:_

 _'Dear Ms. Thistlebaum,_

 _I'm writing you in response to the article you wrote about me a couple of days ago. I was hoping that I could clear up any misconceptions and provide more context for the information you uncovered._

 _When I was a year old, I was sent to live with my mother's sister. The reasons for this are private, but given the political and social climate of the time, I assure you that I have good reason to believe it was necessary. This was simply a mistake, and no one is to blame for this oversight. Professor Dumbledore did leave me with my mother's family, but he did so assuming that I would be well taken care of. He placed me somewhere where he could ensure my protection from those who might have sought to harm me at the time, and I am grateful that he put my physical safety first.'_

Tom had thought he was laying it on a little thick there, but Harry thought that it was better to sound exceptionally gracious than passive aggressively vindictive.

 _'For as long as I remember, I was treated poorly by my Muggle guardians, who believe magic to be a vile aberration against nature. They did keep me in a cupboard under the stairs, and employed corporeal punishment, withholding meals and allowing my cousin to physically assault me when it suited them. This has been my life for years, and it has been difficult, but I believe that I am a better person because of the hardships I have suffered. And now, it is in the past._

 _There are many of us who share painful pasts rooted in the civil war that devastated Britain only a little more than ten years ago, but the victims of this war who have been lucky enough to have a future have done their best to move on and rebuild their lives anew. I intend to do the same, and I encourage all of your readers to also look toward the future, where there are many more hardships that we will face – because the reality is that my past is will be others' futures if nothing is done to prevent it._

 _This reality is that there are many Halfblood and Muggleborn children who have suffered at the hands of Muggles – this is by no means an isolated incident. It is true that most Muggle parents and guardians are supportive of their Magical children, but unfortunately, this is not always the case; and in this case even one exception is too many. I have lived with Muggles my entire life, and during this time I have learned that there are some who fear what they do not understand, and the consequences of this fear are often directed at the most helpless among us – the children, parentless or otherwise, who grow up alone in the Muggle world, left defenceless by our own questionable laws and morally deficient policies._

 _It is my hope that stories like mine will prompt the Ministry of Magic to take a more proactive stance when it comes to ensuring the welfare of Magical children raised in the Muggle world, and I believe that this is what we should be discussing. I hope that the adult witches and wizards of our world can put aside questions about how poorly I was treated, and ask instead what they can do to make sure this never happens again._

 _We all share in a rich history and a beautiful gift, and we should all be given the chance to live happily in the magical world; there should be no exceptions – I think we can all agree on that. All magical children deserve to develop and thrive in the magical world unimpeded by those who would take this away from them out of fear or spite. Magic is a gift and a freedom, and we should all be able to appreciate it as such; I think that this is an attainable goal, if we all work together and think hard about what our future should look like. I think about this a lot, and I hope that you can encourage your readers to do the same._

 _Thank you for listening._

 _Sincerely,  
_ _Harry James Potter'_

 _More details on page 2B._

Harry nodded subtly when he finished reading, revelling in the smug amusement Tom was radiating in the back of his mind.

"Fascinating read, Potter."

It was Zabini, who was now looking at him...differently. As though he was seeing him for the first time.

Now that he looked at the faces of his fellow Slytherins more closely, it became clear that shock did not quite describe their countenances – they were all vague semblances of, well, something like respect.

Draco scoffed, and attempted to smile. It was strained, though. "Fascinating read? Quite brilliant if I do say so myself." His voice was a little thinner than usual.

To his immense surprise, Pansy Parkinson was nodding beside him. "I take it all back, Potter – you are a Slytherin."

Theo patted him on his shoulder, a poorly contained grin on his face. "To be fair, I realized you were brilliant first."

Harry could not help but laugh at this. "Pass the strawberries, Theo."

"Most certainly, fearless leader."

In his heart, he knew that most likely they were all mistaken – they would assume that the letter was a clever attempt to ensure that he was not made to look weak by the press; the ones who cared might take note that he was criticizing the fact that magical children couldn't practice magic to protect themselves outside of school...but he doubted anyone would see the letter for what it really was. Nonetheless, he appreciated the positive attention.

Laughter bubbling up in his chest, he looked over his shoulder at the staff table.

Most of the professors were staring at him with looks of calm acknowledgement, seasoned with some pity and just the tiniest bit of respect. Remus looked downright proud, and as usual, Professor Snape's gaze was perfectly blank, but boring into his back nonetheless. The only real outlier was Professor Dumbledore.

The elderly wizard's face held the appearance of serenity, as it always did, but Harry could see what was underneath – it was grim understanding, a look of grave revelation. The Headmaster was staring at him piercingly, his sparkling blue eyes betraying cold, calculated acceptance.

 _He knows_ , Tom whispered in his mind.

"I know," Harry said inaudibly, offering the man a polite smile before he fixed his attention on the most luscious of red strawberries.

* * *

Ugh...I do not like that chapter at all (I've tweaked it so many times, and I'm fed up by now), but I hope you found it tolerable. Do let me know what you think, though :)


	50. Albus Dumbledore

**Disclaimer:** Right. So...I don't own Harry Potter. Yeah.

 **AN:** Oh my god, you guys, thank you so much. I was feeling really down about the last chapter - I'd reworked it a few times and had torn it apart a few times and it was starting to get to me - but then you guys come along and send me so many kind reviews. It was so, so encouraging to read what you wrote to me, and I'm so happy that I didn't disappoint my readers. After all the support I've gotten I always want to post things that you'll enjoy. It's such a relief that I managed to do that. Now I just need to get through this chapter...which was really hard to write.

On a side note, it's Sunday! So I guess I'm posting on Sundays now.

* * *

 **Chapter 50: Albus Dumbledore**

He once read a piece that went by the name 'Über formal unentscheidbare Sätze der Principia Mathematika und verwandter Systeme', or in English, 'On Formally Undecidable Propositions of Principia Mathematica and Related Systems'. He read it at a time when he was at a crossroads, looking for guidance.

When he was young he was especially preoccupied with his own fallibility, and sought to diminish his insecurities by delving into the study of formal logic. Formal logic was the concern of philosophers and mathematicians, two particular groups of muggles whose work arithmancers and magical theorists often contributed to; for many magical scholars it had proved to be a treasure trove of fascinating ideas and methods that furthered their own research in an efficient and effective way. For him, it was never about research or discovery. It was an addiction he fell into in his youth; he became enthralled by the certainty of it all. It was a method of reasoning which could not be disputed; reasonable laws of logic had been formed and if followed with precision, they led to indisputable results. It was a comfort to train his mind to reason in such a way.

Mathematicians at the time were very concerned with developing a _logical system –_ which, simply put, is a collection of _axioms_ , or initial assumptions, and _rules of deduction_ – that could provide a foundation for all other mathematics; in particular, a foundation for arithmetic was desired. Such a system was required to have two properties in particular – consistency and completeness. A consistent system is a system that cannot prove something to be both true and false, while a complete system is a system that can prove anything to be either true or false, leaving no unknowns. The result is a system that can prove any statement - proposition, if you will - of arithmetic to be either true or false, but not both. He found such a system to be very desirable, as did most people, and for a while it seemed that finding this system was an attainable goal.

But, in fact, it was not.

They were called the Incompleteness Theorems. A system rich enough to provide a foundation for arithmetic cannot be complete if it is consistent. To commit to consistently reasoning about mathematics in this way was to admit that some knowledge was untouchable; it was to accept that there were some true statements that could not be proven to be true or false, and would forever remain in logical limbo. Formally undecidable propositions were an inevitability.

Now, one might wonder why a man like Albus Dumbledore would sit up in his office in the middle of the night reminiscing on a former obsession with mathematics. It might seem like idle behaviour for a man in his position, but his musings had a purpose, a very particular and simple purpose, and that purpose was this: he was merely reminding himself of the fact that even in the most controlled environments, undecidable propositions can exist; indeed, in many cases, they must. Even the most well-founded reasoning is marred by uncertainty. _Undecidable propositions_ – that's all. He just wanted to think on the term, and recall its weight.

He learned all this – over ten years after the discovery was made, but he was a busy man – at a time when he was plagued by indecision and fear; he was searching relentlessly for answers, for direction. He was desperate to find the _right path to take_. A war was raging in Continental Europe and it had made its way to Britain, and Gellert grew more and more powerful every day; and there he was, hidden away at Hogwarts, his nose in a book whenever his foot was not in the classroom. He had been lost, frozen, convicted that he had to be ever so cautious, that he had to determine the correct course of action before he acted; not only that, but he was sure that the reasoning behind this course of action had to be infallible, absolute. But then it occurred to him that his decision might just be analogous an undecidable proposition; perhaps he was searching for a certainty that didn't exist. It was at that point in his life that it truly sunk in that even if one believes there is always a right path, one might never be able to arrive at it through reason or logic; that even the best, wisest, most intelligent man might not be able to locate the correct course of action. Sometimes a conviction could be an approximation at best, and all that could be done was to commit to a course of action, and accept the consequences.

He had made many crucial decisions over the course of his life, and many of them were lauded as wise – but there were times when he had to remind himself that even at his best the good he always sought might be unattainable - or rather: attainable, but not within his control. He made mistakes. And it was one of these mistakes that he was pondering now, as he sat in his office, stroking Fawkes's vibrant red feathers at 2 o'clock in the morning.

Over the past three years, he had collected facts about Harry James Potter and had drawn conclusions from these facts. Unfortunately, while he, for the most part, had collected the facts in a way he thought was satisfactory, and drew what he considered to be reasonable conclusions. But he now saw that the actions he had taken and the beliefs he held had ignored the possibility that the correct fashion in which he should have approached the situation might be unattainable through logic.

It was a fact that Harry Potter had grown up in the care of Lily Evans's family. Minerva had once asserted that they were the worst sort of muggles, but her protests were not especially fervent, and from that he had gleaned that this was an exaggeration on Minerva's part. He had met the 'worst sort of muggles', and Lily Evan's family would almost certainly not fall into this category – especially since they had _voluntarily_ taken young Harry in. They could have cast the boy out, but they did not. The impenetrable wards he was able to construct around the Dursley residence of Number 4 Privet Drive were proof that Harry Potter had been accepted into his Aunt's household, however reluctantly - the wards would not have held otherwise.

However, it was also a fact that Lily did not enjoy speaking of her sister, implying distance at the very least; this in turn implied that there was a distinct possibility that the boy would suffer an absence of love and affection. Even so, it was also a fact that the family was clearly well-off and stable, and that being raised in the muggle world would prevent young Harry from becoming biased with respect to the many cultural and political conflicts which plagued the wizarding world, in one direction or the other, and it would also prevent his immense fame from going to his head. The conclusion he drew from all of this was that while Harry Potter's childhood might not turn out to be a happy one, he would ultimately be physically safe and in a stable environment, where he could develop with reasonable normalcy.

It was a fact that from the very beginning, Poppy believed that the boy might have suffered from mistreatment at certain parts of his childhood; this mistreatment could have been at the hands of his family, or it was the doing of other children. Most evidence of this mistreatment, however, was several years old, and recent inspections had yielded no new results, implying that if Harry Potter had frequently suffered injuries of moderate seriousness at the hands of someone else, it had ceased at some point during his time at muggle primary school. This implied in turn that he had been bullied during his younger years. He knew little of Harry's relationship with his relatives, but Arabella Figg had not reported anything unusual, and the muggle authorities had never become involved with the Dursley household. He knew that the boy did not enjoy spending time with his family, and would have preferred to remain at school during the holidays. He knew that, at the very least, something had occurred prior to Harry's departure for Hogwarts that made him believe that his relatives did not like him. These facts, in turn, confirmed his speculation that Harry Potter did not have a particularly happy childhood, but they did not necessitate the existence of a critically troubled one.

It was a fact that upon arriving at Hogwarts, Harry Potter had been sorted into Slytherin. After having been Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for several decades, he knew that it was also a fact that Slytherins were just like any of the other children attending his school – young minds with the capacity to do great things and become kind, moral people. Indeed, he had met many Slytherins who had incredible measures of goodness in them. From this he drew the conclusion that Harry Potter was a clever boy, and no doubt had aspirations to prove himself, as many would in his position. The hat had seen this, and saw fit to put him in Slytherin.

It was a fact that Harry Potter was thoroughly disliked by Severus Snape. Severus continually claimed that the boy was arrogant, manipulative, and obsessive, and he never failed to express the disdain he felt for both the boy and those who were 'deceived by his superficial charms'. Unpacking these claims was a simple matter. The arrogance he discounted without much thought, because that particular trait was one Severus would have associated with the boy's father, and was most likely a mere projection. The claim that Harry was manipulative was of some concern, but his years as an educator had taught him that intelligent children often appeared to be manipulative as they tested their social skills, so that was likely, for the most part, innocuous. The claim about the boy's obsessive nature, however...he concluded that that might be of some concern, an impression that had been confirmed as valid later on.

Nevertheless, it was a fact that Harry Potter was well-liked. He was a friend to muggleborns and the children of Death Eaters alike, and an amiable presence to everyone in the school. With the exception of Severus, of course. It was a fact that his teachers were enamoured with his alleged brilliance, and he did well in all his classes and had managed to avoid finding himself in trouble, with a few notable exceptions. From these facts he drew the conclusion that while Harry Potter's childhood may not have been a happy one, he had nevertheless been nurtured, to some degree at least, by either a strong sense of self-reliance and moral fibre, or someone who had his best interests at heart.

It was a fact that there were notable exceptions to Harry's spotless record. It was a fact that he had manipulated Hagrid into giving him information on the Philosopher's Stone, and that he had directly disobeyed a clear and firm warning that was given at the beginning of the year to ensure his own safety. It was a fact that the boy claimed that he had done what he did because he wanted learn from his parents' murderer the purpose behind the events of Halloween night, 1981; that he risked his life to better understand why he had lost his family. He drew the conclusion from these facts that the boy was troubled by the blatant gaps in the well-rehearsed and widely accepted story of Tom's defeat at the hands of an infant; that he was intelligent enough to understand that something far more complex was at play. He also drew the conclusion that the boy believed that his teachers, if asked for the truth, would be either ignorant or deceitful, implying that the boy was either unnaturally suspicious or disillusioned with authority figures. This implied that it was likely that the boy had, in fact, nurtured and taught himself.

Another notable exception was the incident concerning the petrification of Mrs. Norris. It was a fact that both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were innocent of any wrongdoing – a quick scan of the their surface thoughts was enough to confirm this. It was also a fact that this scan (specifically, the scan of Draco Malfoy's mind) revealed that Harry had heard a voice right before the attack, a voice coming from within the walls; it had also revealed that it was impossible to skim Harry's thoughts and glean any information – instead of accurate impressions and recent memories, he received information that was certainly false. From these few facts he was able to draw a number of crucial conclusions. The first was that it was unlikely that Harry or Draco were the (knowing) perpetrators of any of the following attacks; the second was that Harry was likely a parselmouth - he had long suspected that Slytherin's monster was some kind of serpent, and Harry's ability to hear it and understand it when no one else could do so suggested that he had inherited more than a scar from his first encounter with Tom. The third conclusion was that Harry Potter was an occlumens of considerable skill, which was both extraordinarily impressive for someone his age and also concerning. Despite how firmly he reassured Minerva, he too was concerned about what the boy believed he had to hide, and why he believed he was under threat from a legillimens. He had likely discovered somehow that he, Severus, or Tom were able to glean information from his mind. That, or he had read about legillimency, and found himself obsessed with defending against it, as Severus had suggested. Neither options boded particularly well, but neither were of urgent concern, so he, well, 'let sleeping dogs lie'.

A further exception was uncovered when Harry saved Draco's life in the sixth month of 1993. It was a fact that the story Harry and Draco supplied him with was one they had painted specifically for him. He was quite certain that there was an entrance to the Chamber of Secrets within his school, and that it was likely that Draco, while under the influence of Tom's diary, had entered it while still inside the school. He also knew that Harry Potter was able to find this entrance and infiltrate it successfully, confirming his belief that the boy was a parselmouth. This also implied that the boy was aware of this fact and felt it necessary to go to great lengths to hide it.

It was a fact that Harry considered whatever method he used to nullify the magic of Tom's diary a worse transgression than casting a spell as dark and dangerous as _anathema purgo_. He knew that the boy had not used this spell on a cursed object as complex as Tom's diary (at the very least, he had not used it while the diary was still cursed), because had it not killed him, it would have permanently damaged his magical core, and the effects of that would not have been invisible. He chose at the time to overlook the conundrum of why the boy would find using magic as dangerous as _anathema purgo –_ a spell that would have surely caused permanent damage, if not his demise, had he actually used it – a lesser transgression than whatever he had done to cleanse Tom's diary in earnest; for he now had the grave suspicion that something far more sinister and complex was at play. The conclusions he drew from these troubling facts were that Harry Potter knew something about how Tom had created his diary, and knew more about Tom and what had transpired between them than he was willing to admit, and that he had crucial information that he would not easily give up. How this was possible, he had yet to uncover.

The final major exception to Harry's polished record he had only uncovered this last week. It was a fact that Harry Potter, when it was revealed to him that what he no doubt perceived as a damning weakness was made known to the general public, was overcome with, excuse the pun, burning rage. It was a fact that he had lost control, and his magic had lashed out instinctively. From this fact alone he learned that Harry was more powerful than he initially believed. And that the boy's mental stability was quite tenuous. It was also a fact that minutes later he felt a surge of furious dark magic coming from somewhere in the castle, and from that fact he was able to draw a startling conclusion; the incident back in 1992, that had not been the Heir of Slytherin – that had been Harry Potter. It was a fact that Harry Potter was polite and good-natured – but apparently these traits were disguising something no one could have anticipated: a deadly, explosive temper.

He made the very reasonable conclusion that the boy had strayed into the dark arts; but he also made the assumption that this straying was just a bit of experimentation, harmless enough if kept in check. After all, the dark arts were not evil - magic is not good, nor evil - only dangerous. And danger can be tempered with wisdom. With the right knowledge, surely the boy would abandon his forbidden studies. There was no need to jump to conclusions. No need to make unfair comparisons. The dark arts were a temptation for powerful, troubled young witches and wizards. The boy had given into that temptation, but perhaps it was, in part, unknowing. He made the assumption that the boy did not quite know what he was doing. He simply needed guidance; he was young and innocent, and thereby allowed some measure of folly. This was a problem, but not an irreparable one.

And these were the facts, and the conclusions he drew from them. They were the most crucial, at the very least, and he had thought them enough to paint an accurate picture of Harry Potter. He had thought that the truth behind Harry Potter's life and character were provable through careful observation and reason. He was a boy with a good heart, with the kindness of a Hufflepuff, the intelligence of a Ravenclaw, the bravery of a Gryffindor, and the cunning and thirst for power of a Slytherin. He had not had a happy childhood, but it was, for all intents and purposes, a relatively _normal_ childhood, and despite the lack of support he may have received from his relatives, he was exposed to positive influences throughout his childhood that instilled in him some degree of emotional intelligence and a love for learning, even if those positive influences were merely his strength of character. He had believed that Harry Potter knew too much about too many things and was by nature a skeptic, but he had nevertheless believed the boy to be ultimately innocent and untouched by the prejudices that ran rampant in the wizarding world, on either side of the spectrum.

He had chosen to believe in this picture. He had chosen to act on this belief. He had decided that the boy's safety came first, and that leaving well enough alone was the correct course of action.

He had been too sure of himself; he had forgotten about the pervasiveness of undecidable propositions. Because the fact was, even if he knew all the facts, even if there was a correct course of action when it came to the fate of Harry Potter, he still might have never found it.

There were two key events, both recent, which confirmed his misstep.

The first was Poppy's discovery. When it came to his decisions regarding Harry Potter's home life, he had been undeniably, irrefutably wrong. A great many of the anomalies of Harry's character – his independence, his manipulative behaviour, his obsessiveness, his secrecy – could be explained as artifacts of a childhood marred by neglect and abuse.

When Poppy had come to him with the revelation that Harry Potter was indeed a tragically wronged child, he would admit to having felt fear, anger, grief, and above all, guilt. He was a man that prided himself on his self control and tranquility, but later that night, after Poppy, Minerva, and Severus had gone, he shed tears.

He was a wise, intelligent, and powerful man, and he had always ascribed to a view that could be easily encapsulated by a muggle saying, 'with great power comes great responsibility'. Over the course of his lifetime he had allotted for himself many tasks and responsibilities, and he was but a man – he was bound to fail at some of them. But it was simply tragic that this failure had come in the form of a series of bad decisions concerning an innocent, unfortunate child – an innocent, unfortunate child who happened to be James and Lily's boy.

This was not a mistake he would forget, and he would gladly bear his guilt until the end of his days. It did not change the fact that had he not placed the boy in the care of his relatives within the wards he constructed that he might have been dead, by now – but he would feel his guilt nonetheless.

Nevertheless, he had hope, at first – he had reason to believe that Harry Potter was a picture of resilience; that his excellent behaviour and considerable accomplishments were a result of a strength of character that had not been damaged by the boy's unfortunate upbringing.

But then he had read the letter.

It seemed innocuous enough. When the common man would read that letter, they would see the innocence of a wronged child, and would feel the need to right the wrong he had presented to them. Indeed, when he first read the letter, he had found himself taken in by it, much like everyone else – he found himself believing that it was all very transparent and innocent...almost. There was something about it, though, a sort of cleverness he could just smell wafting from between the lines.

And then he watched Harry enter the Great Hall, and saw the calm look on his face, the confidence in his gait. The boy had known what every reaction to his letter would be before he even witnessed them. The expression on his face – it was an expression of satisfaction; it was the expression of someone who was in control; someone whose carefully crafted plans had come to fruition. It was the expression of the cat who caught the canary.

The boy was careful not to point fingers, careful not to say anything abrasively negative or accusatory at all. He criticized _policies_ and _laws,_ but not the people who put them in place, or the reasons they had for doing so. He blamed no one – not even Lord Voldemort – and he claimed muggles were _fearful_ , not evil. The letter appeared to be a child's plea, a young boy's innocent request for reasonable improvement – but what it really was was a brilliant piece of political propaganda...or at least, that's what it had the potential to be.

Harry had worded his letter in such a way that it would be cruel to disagree with him – if the Ministry attempted to defend its policies, it would be seen as callous and uncaring. The boy knew that placing blame would alienate at least some of the readers of the Daily Prophet. He knew that placing emphasis on direct criticisms would cause people to turn a blind eye as to avoid the guilt incited by the feeling of ignorance and impotence. So instead he presented a cause that any decent person would find themselves supporting: the well-being of children. He spoke of cooperation, of a better future, of unity – of the tools that made powerful men powerful.

Harry Potter was not as resilient as he had wanted to believe; the boy had been profoundly affected by the abuse he suffered. It was speculation at this point, but he posited that Harry did not like muggles, and he did not believe that young witches and wizards should be left in their care. At the very least, he believed that young witches and wizards should be able to cast magic on muggles without risking expulsion. But more crucially – he felt so strongly about these beliefs that at the mere age of 13, he wanted to do something about it. And he was polite, gracious, and carefully neutral about it, and that was what gave him the potential to be such a threat to the careful balancing act the Wizarding World was now playing at.

He would be a fool if, by now, he did not see the blatant similarities between Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. Parentless, charismatic, brilliant parselmouths and dark wizards who were well liked by nearly everyone – the two were powerful wizards with boundless potential. That much was obvious. The comparisons, as they sprung up, had concerned him, but not to the point of fearing what the boy would become. He had great faith that if he intervened at the correct points in time, Harry Potter would be spared the fate of Tom Riddle.

No, it was their _differences_ which incited foreboding in his chest now.

Tom Riddle, as everyone knew him, was a false persona, a mirage. Any goodness others saw in him was feigned, a product of empty charisma. In the end, when all was stripped away, a monster was the only thing left. Tom Riddle had always been a monster – perhaps not always, but by the time he was well into his Hogwarts education, he certainly was. He learned how to pretend to be otherwise, but it was always lurking underneath, far too close to the surface. In school, Tom was well liked, but that was because he did not dare reveal himself to his classmates. He had opinions, beliefs, and goals that would have made his fellow students' skin crawl, and he was well aware of this, and hid carefully. And in the end, when he chose to show his hand, he ultimately alienated most of the population of Wizarding Europe, which would have been his downfall, if he had not constructed his own demise at the hands of the prophecy.

Tom Riddle was a great wizard and a powerful Dark Lord, and he was doomed to fail in the end.

But Harry Potter was not.

He did not believe Harry to be a monster. There was good in the boy – that much was obvious. And not only a capacity for goodness; a fully developed virtuous character. But this goodness, this empathy, this kindness – it gave him an edge Tom Riddle could have never hoped to have. Harry didn't have to hide. He didn't have to feign goodness, because it truly was there. But he could no longer mistake this goodness for innocence.

Harry Potter was a troubled boy with a tragic past, with ambitions greater than what most of his elders would admit to. He held firm beliefs, and was willing to create conflict - albeit subtly and carefully - in order to further a yet undisclosed ideological agenda. Harry Potter was in a uniquely advantageous position - he was ambitious and cunning and beloved and a subject of sympathy. And from the facts he had collected, he would draw a new conclusion – that Harry Potter knew this as well.

* * *

"Ah, Harry."

"Professor Snape said you wished to see me?"

A very convincing befuddled look was shaping the boy's face – one that he identified as fake, now that he knew what to look for.

Still, he smiled welcomingly at the boy. "I did. Please, come in."

Despite his confused facade, Harry did not manage to hide the wonder that filled his eyes when he fully stepped into his office, as his bright green gaze eagerly swept from trinket to book to stack of parchment. Predictably, it lingered on the form of Fawkes, who was perched beside his desk as he often was.

"I see you have noticed Fawkes," he said softly, adding on, "Fawkes is a phoenix."

The boy's eyes widened drastically. "A _real_ phoenix?"

He chuckled, feeling relief bubbling up in his chest – it was comforting to see the presence of childlike wonder in the boy. "Indeed, he is quite real, to the best of my knowledge, at least. Please, sit down – Fawkes won't bite, he's quite friendly."

The boy cautiously sat down, and for a moment, he said nothing, only watching the boy fidget. They were short, stifled twitches in his wand hand, barely perceptible, and therefore probably not feigned; neither was the faint look of fear shining through his emerald green eyes. He resisted the urge to sigh. This would be much more difficult if the boy felt threatened; for that certainly wasn't his intention. He wanted clarification, nothing more; moreover, he wanted the boy to know that he had somewhere to turn to, when he came to the inevitable crossroads before him.

"May I ask what this is about? I'm not in trouble am I?"

It was an honest question.

He tried to offer a comforting smile. "I think you know exactly what this is about, Harry."

"Sir?"

"Come now, my boy, let's not play games." As much as he enjoyed them, there was a time and a place. "Tangled words tend to part with their potency, and sentiments too subtle are often lost in translation. You know what they say – waste not, want not."

The boy's lips quirked upward a little, as though he could not help but be a bit amused. "I admit, professor, that I'd never really thought about it like that." He hesitated. "You want to talk to me about my letter?" he asked slowly.

"Indeed I do – I confess myself very fascinated by your words, Harry, and I had hoped we could have a little chat, if you are amenable."

"Of course, sir."

He smiled kindly. He had to be careful now – he wanted the boy's attention; he wanted to truly make clear the fact that he was not playing games. He had a strategy for accomplishing this, but it might very well backfire.

"Excellent. Now Harry, before we begin, I must make two small requests."

"Sir?"

"First and foremost, I must request your honesty."

"Of course sir, I would never -"

"Harry," he interrupted softly, before the boy could incite the devolution of their conversation before it even started, "Do not make the mistake that many other young men make – do not mistake silence for ignorance. I am very well aware of your penchant for spinning tall tales."

The boy put on another confused look, but his face had paled slightly...only slightly, though. "I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

He smiled sadly. "Then perhaps a demonstration might suffice."

Now the boy looked genuinely confused. "A demonstration?"

"I know about the Chamber of Secrets, Harry."

The boy froze, except his hand, which was twitching more noticeably now.

"I'm afraid I caught on to your little fib."

"Sir?" the boy said weakly.

"I will speak plainly, Harry. I know that you found the Chamber of Secrets, and I know why you were able to find it."

Despite the mildness of his accusation, however, the boy was measuring his breaths now, panic evident in his eyes - it was subtle, but to him, it was painfully clear. "N-no, I'm sure you've misunderstood something -"

Now that _was_ interesting. The boy's reaction was far more extreme than he anticipated. The boy was trying very hard to control himself, but he could easily see past that; he could see that Harry's fight-or-flight instinct had nearly kicked in. In Harry's eyes, something had just gone very wrong. The only reasonable conclusion...was that the stakes were much higher, for Harry at least, than he initially believed. It was almost as though...the boy feared for his life.

But why would being a parselmouth place him in mortal danger? Yet another clue, for sure.

Meanwhile, he closed his eyes and shook his head head slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. "I don't believe that I have; after all, I also know that you had nothing to do with the attacks, and that your actions were, in fact, nothing less than heroic, at their core. I commend you for that, my boy. No, your strange ability does not have me concerned, and it is not something I hold against you. You have nothing to worry about in that regard."

Harry visibly relaxed at his words, and he dared to look him in the eye. His gaze was clearly mistrustful, despite the careful words that followed. "I...appreciate that, Professor."

He smiled vaguely. "Not at all."

The boy smiled back, albeit weakly, before frowning again. "Did Sirius or Remus...?"

His eyebrows rows. "Oh, they know as well? I assure you, Harry, neither of them betrayed your trust." He was truly pleased that the boy had chosen to confide in an authority figure on the matter, for it assuaged some of his worries.

At the same time...it implied that Harry perceived _him_ in particular as the threat. Which was rather odd, given how limited their interactions had been.

Either way, the boy looked relieved at his confirmation.

"Now that we have that out of the way, I will ask again; can you give me your honesty, Harry, for the duration of this little chat of ours?"

The boy nodded slowly, a cautious look on his face. "Yes, Sir."

"Now, let's see..."

The poor child looked quite nervous at this point.

"As I said, I must ask you for one more things before we begin."

The boy eyed him warily. "Yes, sir?"

He let the smile slide off of his face, and allowed himself a rare moment of weakness; he allowed all the weariness, guilt, and sympathy he had felt over the last week rise to the surface. "Your forgiveness, Harry. I must ask for your forgiveness."

The boy blinked, and then blinked again, a genuinely baffled look on his face. "Sir?"

"As you are aware, Harry, it was I who placed you in the home of your aunt and uncle, where I assumed you would be cared for. Never did I once consider that your mother's sister would give you anything less than a safe place to learn and grow, and because of that, I did nothing. I had an old acquaintance of mine keep an eye on the house, but I did not think think to ascertain for myself whether or not you were safe and happy. Because of this, you have suffered. And for that, I owe you a profound apology."

It was the truth - but a carefully crafted one. The boy didn't need to understand why he had done what he did. Why his safety was so crucial. He didn't need to know of the difficult destiny before him. Not yet. A time would come, but not yet. He had already gone through far, far too much.

"I don't think you do, sir," the boy said quietly.

He shook his head. "On the contrary, Harry – I truly do owe you the deepest of apologies. I greatly regret my mistake, and will continue to regret it for the rest of my days."

The boy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You...don't have to apologize, sir. It wasn't your fault. My understanding is that the Dursleys have exhibited...abnormal behaviour...and so not accounting for it it can't entirely be called an oversight on your part. No one...is to blame. It's all just very unfortunate."

The boy clearly didn't believe his own words, which were stilted and audibly uncertain.

"If you truly believed your plight was merely unfortunate, Harry, you would not have written what you did. I think you made it quite clear in your letter that there are wrongs that need to be righted, here – that blame does belong to someone; perhaps not entirely to me, but you truly do believe that you have suffered an injustice, to which I would be inclined to agree."

"That wasn't my intention, sir, when writing my letter."

"May I be so bold as to ask you what your true intentions were, then?"

The boy hesitated, but then seemed to come to some sort of decision, and steeled himself. "I was...upset by Ms. Thistlebaum's article -"

He took note of the boy's formal and apparently respectful reference to the reporter as 'Ms. Thistlebaum', perhaps related to the way that the boy refused to call him anything but 'sir' or 'professor'. A precaution, perhaps? A way of isolating or detaching himself?

"- I felt that I was being taken advantage of and that my personal life was being made into little more than sensationalized entertainment," the boy continued honestly.

"And that made you angry."

The boy's face reddened slightly, and his eyes flickered down to his hands – an obvious indication of shame, which he believed to be genuine. So the boy was ashamed of his temper? That was something, at least; it suggested that he did not relish the darker emotions he felt, no matter how prominent they were. Again, he was encouraged.

"Yeah, I was, sir."

"And yet, your letter did not sound very angry at all," he said musingly.

"I...it wouldn't have done any good, just ranting angrily at Ms. Thistlebaum; it would have been just as ineffective to try to deny or play down what she said – it would only support her attempt to make me into a victim."

"And you do not consider yourself to be a victim?"

A dark look passed over the boy's face. "I'm not," he said firmly, gaze sharpening, "I can take care of myself. But Sirius cares about me, and I figured I shouldn't have to live with people who hate me and want me gone if there's someone who actually _wants_ me around. I didn't _need_ help; I just decided it would be for the best to accept it."

"There is no shame in needing help, Harry."

"I don't _need_ anything," the boy said, a little petulantly, before widening his eyes. It would seem that despite how polite and mild-mannered the boy's demeanour was, he could not completely temper his pride. A very Gryffindor trait – reminiscent of both his mother and his father. "I'm sorry, professor, what I meant to say was -"

"No, I suppose no one _needs_ anything."

Harry paused, frowning. "Aren't things we need just things we have to have in order to survive, sir?"

He smiled vaguely. "Are they? Perhaps we could define it as such, but then let me ask you this – do you _need_ to survive?"

The boy opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again a moment later, frown deepening. "No," he said quietly. "I suppose I could just die."

He nodded, pleased that the boy had caught on so quickly. "Need, when one bothers to think of it, is a rather vague notion – one could easily argue that it is nothing but a superficial construct of human vanity, a reflection of our innate fear of unhappiness and death. But let us not argue semantics; let us not, for the moment, dig deeper than we must. We both acknowledge that one can survive without love and happiness – humans are remarkably resilient creatures – but that does not mean we should; it is possible to survive while failing to live. You are but a child, Harry -"

The boy opened his mouth to argue.

"- a remarkably capable and mature child, but a child nonetheless. And all children need a home – it is the right of every child to have a home, and a responsibility of every guardian to freely give one. You have been deprived of your right, and your guardians have shirked their responsibility. This makes you a victim of injustice, Harry. That is not something to be ashamed of – it is mere fact."

The boy's face was blank, and he was stubbornly avoiding eye contact – he was no doubt struggling to maintain his occlumency shields.

"With all due respect, sir, you called me here to talk about my letter," Harry said, voice quivering slightly as it tried to disguise his distress.

"I did."

"But there's not much to say about it, you see," he said tightly, still forcing the appearance of calm on himself, "I don't want to be pitied, and I'm _not_ a victim, so I redirected everyone's attention to a more important topic. I made them concerned about a larger issue, and now they'll feel bad about focusing on insignificant details, like me. I've made sure they have something better to talk about, and now I'm off the hook. I'm a Slytherin, professor – I'm clever like that."

The words weren't arrogant; they were bland and even tainted with bitterness.

"That much I have deduced on my own, Harry. I may be a Gryffindor, but age tends to bring out the Slytherin in all of us."

The lightness of his tone seemed to drain away some of the tension building in the room, and the boy relaxed slightly.

"No, it is not your clever attempt to shift the spotlight, so to speak, that I am curious about – I am curious, my boy, as to whether or not there is more to the story than that."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about pro-"

"Yes, yes you are, Harry," he interrupted softly. "Remember your promise?"

"Yes sir," the boy said in little more than a mumble.

"Now, what was it you said? 'Questionable laws and morally deficient policies' were your exact words, I believe. You don't strike me as the type of boy who makes baseless accusations and broad, sweeping judgments, Harry. You had specific laws and policies in mind when you wrote that, didn't you?"

"I don't know much about the law, sir," the boy said stiffly, vaguely.

"That does not mean you cannot have well-founded opinions, my boy."

Harry paused, seemingly deep in thought. Finally, he seemed to reach a decision, and began slowly and carefully, "The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery prevents children from doing magic outside of school, which is fine for purebloods and halfbloods with magical parents, but for children in the muggle world, they're left defenceless. Even the ability to cast a stunning charm or an _alohomora_ could significantly improve a magical child's ability to remain safe while away from Hogwarts, but to use magic to get themselves out of a bad situation is to risk expulsion – and no one in their right mind would take that risk, because if we can't go to Hogwarts, where else would we go?"

"There are provisions that are made," he pointed out.

"In cases that can be argued to be life-threatening, sir. There are plenty of things that children shouldn't have to go through that aren't life-threatening. When someone does something to harm a child it's rarely life-threatening."

He nodded, eyeing the boy closely. "This is true, but I'm sure an intelligent young man like yourself understands why we have laws like our ban on underage magic."

"Having children doing magic outside school would mean risking the exposure of the magical world."

"Indeed. Of course, there are some who believe exposure would be no great loss; there are some who believe that it is time that we reveal ourselves to the muggles, and attempt to live in harmony with each other. Are you of this opinion, Harry?"

Predictably, the boy grimaced. "No, sir. I don't believe that's possible. It's not worth the risk."

"Oh?"

The boy straightened himself on reflex, as though he was about to give a rehearsed lecture. "Even if, by some small chance, most muggles were willing to accept the existence of a race of people who can kill them with two words without leaving a mark, control their minds, and wipe their memories – which they wouldn't be – there would certainly be some who wouldn't, and there's a good chance that among these people would be people who are used to being the most powerful ones around; and these are the people with nuclear launch codes and armies – armies that outnumber us a thousand to one. There are muggles with a lot of power that shouldn't be underestimated, and the moment they believe this power is threatened, they wouldn't hesitate to lash out."

So it was a lecture – one he had given before. Perhaps to the Granger girl?

"You seem to have put a lot of thought into this."

"I've read a lot of muggle history. It's not encouraging."

He chuckled sadly. "Indeed, indeed. History rarely is, sadly. It is a nice dream though, don't you think? That history would remain history, that we would fail to make the mistakes those before us made – that we could have peace."

"I'm not really one for dreams, sir."

"Fair enough, Harry, fair enough. Given your views on the risks imposed by the exposure of our world, though, you really can't justify repealing the ban on underage magic, can you?"

"No, sir," the boy said meekly, "But the fact that there's no easy alternative doesn't make it right."

"On that, we can both agree." He smiled grimly. "You say that there are no easy alternatives. Have you difficult ones in mind, then?"

"Well, if magical children can't defend themselves, then the Ministry should be doing it for them, shouldn't they?"

"Oh? And how are they to do that?"

"Magical children from muggle families aren't contacted until they get their Hogwarts letter – the Ministry could contact them earlier. They could keep an eye on them, monitor their homes."

"That would be a breach of privacy, Harry."

"But wouldn't it be worth it?"

"I suppose you could argue that, but that leaves one very pertinent problem."

The boy frowned. "What?"

"Resources."

The boy blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the practical answer. "Resources?"

"The Ministry of Magic has limited resources Harry, and I can assure you that they do not have the means to actively monitor the homes of every magical child in the muggle world."

"I...find that hard to believe. Aren't there charms they could use to detect violence or verbal abuse?"

"Were there such charms, Harry, they would not be able to tell the difference between rough-housing between children and genuine violence; they would not be able differentiate arguments from verbal abuse and threats. The sheer volume of alarms that would be set off on a daily basis would be immense, and each one would need to be investigated thoroughly. A daunting task, don't you think?"

"What about wards like the ones you set up around the Dursleys' house? Those kept me safe, right?"

He smiled sadly. "Your circumstances were exceptional, Harry. The circumstances of your arrival at the home of your relatives played a large part in the construction of those wards, which I erected myself, and a wizard with lesser skill or power would not have been able to do so. And besides all that...well, the blood wards were only so successful at keeping you safe, as you are well aware. They protect against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, against dark creatures and some curses – but clearly not against those with the intent to hurt you. Indeed, to the best of my knowledge, no such charms - of reasonable scale, at the very least - exist."

Harry was visibly troubled by his statement. "But even if the Ministry can't monitor all magical children all the time, surely there's something more that they can do. Visit families. Explain what's happening to them. Check to make sure that the children are happy and well cared for. Anything."

"The Ministry of Magic considers informing young children in the muggle world of their ability to do magic to be a security risk," he countered mildly. Sometimes playing the Devil's Advocate was a pleasant pastime.

"Accidental magic -"

"Can be explained away or covered up in most cases. No, the Ministry considers the risk is too high for the return."

"They have a right to know!" the boy said indignantly, before he added meekly, "Sir."

"Do they? What do they gain, Harry, by knowing of a world unreachable to them? Their home is in the muggle world, and they will have to wait years in order to be able to access this marvelous world of magic that has been introduced to them only in the barest of ways."

A dark look swept over the boy's face. "It's not about what they gain – it's about knowing the truth. It's about knowing what they are."

"And what is that, Harry? Human?"

"But we're not. Not really."

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Do you know what they call us, professor? Freaks." The boys eyes were far away, but glimmering a dark and glassy green. "They say that there's something wrong with us – that we're _wrong_. And they're right, because to them, we are; without magic, we're all wrong – without the magical world, a part of us is missing, and we can never be whole, real. Magic -" he let out a shuddering breath, and if he didn't know better, he would think the boy was in pain "- is everything."

Suddenly, Harry's eyes snapped toward him, capturing him with the fire that was now burning in them; the dark, glassy emerald shade had evaporated, replaced by an unearthly green, nearly glowing.

"It's not fair, that there are children who grow up knowing the wonders of magic, while the rest of us are left as freaks, as _wrong_. We have a right to know who we are, and what we are, but because the Ministry of Magic is content to leave well enough alone, thousands of children have grown up thinking that there's something wrong with them, when it's really the opposite."

The boy grit his teeth, and he truly appeared to be in pain now. "I spoke to Madame Pomfrey, you know – she told me I'm not alone, and she's right. She told me about the records she keeps, and I know I shouldn't have, but I checked them, I've seen the numbers, and now I know - about how two thirds of the suicides documented among Hogwarts students are muggleborns, about how four fifths of children removed from their homes are removed from muggle homes. Muggleborn students enter the magical world with less knowledge and fewer resources than anyone else, and suffer more prejudice than anyone else, and the fact that they have to face the muggle world alone just makes it worse for them. Those numbers aren't a coincidence, professor, and something has to be done about it!"

The boy was breathing heavily now, and his cheeks were a bright red. This child really was something, he decided as he stared at him – he was kind, charismatic, and overflowing with boundless potential. Prophecy or not, this boy could be exactly what the wizarding world needed – or precisely what it could not handle.

"And something is being done, Harry," he said, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice, "But these things take time. Lawmaking is a slow and arduous process, and the Ministry of Magic is not known for its ability to adapt well to change. And believe me, my boy, that there is _much_ that needs to change. But even better policies and more resources would not solve the problems you present, because these problems run deeper than the Ministry of Magic and its laws. You speak of injustices and prejudices, Harry, which at their core are fueled by the darker sides of human nature, such as fear. It is human nature to fear what we do not understand – this is why some muggles hate magic; this is also why many pureblood and halfblood wizards hate muggles. Prejudice and fear run rampant in the hearts of muggles and wizards alike, and this is the true enemy that we face. We can make laws and change policies as much as we'd like, but the fear and prejudice will remain. So we must ask ourselves, how can we overcome these fears?"

The boy was silent for a moment, clearly affected by his words. "We can't."

"Are you so sure?"

"If we could, sir, someone would have figured it out by now."

He stared at the boy, who was now calm and together, if not a little unnerved. "You know, Harry, this is a problem I myself have been faced with many times; I do not need to see the numbers, I see the faces and the lives behind them." He paused, considering carefully what to say next. "Did you know that I was offered the position of Minister of Magic? Several times, in fact."

"...no, I didn't, sir."

"I have turned down the offer every time. Do you know why?"

"No, sir, I have no idea." The boy looked genuinely puzzled, and a little affronted.

"I must confess that I long ago became disillusioned with politics, and I find myself having little faith that the Ministry of Magic will ever be able to solve the problems you present. That is why I have dedicated my life to teaching – I can only hope that I might be able to play a part in ridding each new generation of the fear and prejudices that have plagued those that have come before. Overcoming fear is no easy feat, my boy, but we cannot give up hope. For if we do that, what more can we do?"

"Make laws that stop the fear from hurting people."

"Which is far easier said than done, as we have just discussed."

"But surely, sir, as Minister of Magic, you could have done something to make it all better. Sure, the system is broken, but that just means that someone needs to fix it, right?"

"Ah, but no one man can do so on his own, Harry – that is the nature of the system we have accepted as ours; that is the nature of democracy. People will not change their ways unless they are ready as a collective whole."

The boy looked startled for a moment, but only a brief moment. "But I'm sure you could do something, professor," he said, "You're the most powerful wizard alive. If anyone could fix it, it would be you; you might have to work outside the box, or overturn the system – but it would be justified, wouldn't it?"

"And what would that make me, Harry?"

"A hero," the boy claimed resolutely.

"Or a terrible, terrible villain. Harry, you must understand, that the day I take the lives of every witch and wizard in Britain into my own hands is the day I lose my faith in humanity. It is the day I decide that I have transcended the will of the common man, and have ascended to something greater. Many powerful men and women have fallen prey to this delusion, Harry, and I refuse to be one of them.

"Power is a blessing...but it is also a curse; for the powerful it is so very easy to become hubristic and foolhardy. It lies buried deep within all of us – the desire to rise above the troubles of the world; to overcome, and conquer. This desire, while a profound driving force that fuels progress and strength of character, is a poison to those with power; it lures them into the dark places in their own minds, and drains away their humanity and benevolence." He paused. "A student of mine once said, there is no good or evil – there is only power, and those too weak to seek it. These are the words of a man who is trapped within himself; a man who sacrificed his own future and the futures of others for a dream which in the end, turned out to be empty. These are the words of a man who has lost his humanity, and become nothing more than a villain – a man who has lost everything, and will never amount to anything."

Harry stared at him, his face pale, his eyes wide and returned to a dark, glassy shade of green. He was frozen, and said nothing.

"Do you understand now, Harry, why I wanted to speak to you today?"

"Yes sir," the young wizard whispered.

And how he hoped he did. Harry Potter was his chance at redemption. Harry Potter was his chance to right the wrongs of the past, and prevent history from repeating itself. Harry Potter was hope. But even hope needs to be tempered.

* * *

"Ah, Severus, come in."

His former student stepped into his office, dark eyes betraying the slightest fatigue. It was a Friday, and Severus, despite how skilled he was at concealing his weaknesses, always seemed just a little bit older than his mere 34 years at the end of every week.

"You called, Headmaster." Indeed, the especially dull tone of his voice indicated more than a little weariness.

He nodded, smiling pleasantly. "I have come to a decision about Harry Potter's temporary guardianship."

At that, Severus's gaze sharpened, and his eyes narrowed. It truly warmed his heart to know that the man genuinely cared about what would become of Harry. "Which is...?"

"There are few who I would trust with this task – it must be a skilled witch or wizard who I trust implicitly, and someone capable of protecting the boy if need be."

Severus remained silent.

"These criterion, and some others which I will not bore you with, have left me with three choices; myself, Minerva, and you, Severus."

Severus's eyes narrowed further, and he could see the slightest shadow of dread creeping up in them as he gradually grew more awake.

"Now, as you are aware, Minerva has obligations in the Americas over the holidays, as always, so she is unable to watch over the boy, which leaves you and I." He paused, allowing that fact to sink in. "As you are aware, I am a very busy man – I travel a great deal during the summer months and due to my frequent absences, I fear I would be ill-suited to take care of a child at the moment. Do you understand what I am saying, Severus?"

"No," the man bit out stubbornly.

He continued to smile pleasantly. "I am saying that Harry's temporary guardianship falls to you, Severus."

All emotion suddenly fled Severus's face. "That's not possible."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"I have neither the time nor the patience to care for a child," Severus said briskly.

"Ah, but Severus, I am well aware that you spend your summer months brewing in your laboratory," he said cheerily, "And I have great faith in your capacity for patience, should you put your mind to it."

Severus grimaced, but only very subtly. "Surely one of the other faculty members can take the boy. I'm sure Pomona or Filius would be _thrilled_."

He shook his head. "I have already told you, Severus, there are few I trust with this task."

Severus was silent for a moment, a dark look growing on his face. "Potter is an _abused_ and no doubt _traumatised_ child," he said, his voice carefully restrained, "Do you really think my home a suitable place for him?"

His smile softened. "Yes, I do, Severus. I can think of no more suitable place. In fact, I believe that you will be able to give the boy exactly what he needs right now."

Severus paused. "And if I refuse?"

"You won't."

The man's eyes narrowed. "And why is that?"

"Remember your promises, Severus. It is what she would have wanted."

The man's face grew closed off, and he stared at him for a long moment.

"I want a raise."

He chuckled.

* * *

Hope I did it justice - as I said, this was a really difficult chapter to write, and I'm more than a little concerned. Please do let me know!


	51. Anticlimactic

**Disclaimer:** For the last time, I don't own this.

 **AN:** So, guys, this is it; this is the last chapter. Don't panic! There's a sequel! Er, continuation, or whatever. It's just convenient for me to split the story up, in part because this story is a solid T, but future chapters will by necessity be M...and I'm starting to get annoyed by the number of chapters. I hate scrolling through lists.

Anyway, I confess that I'm pretty nervous about publishing this. The end is kind of the big reveal, in a way, and now that I'm showing you a significant portion of what's been going through my head as I write all this, I'm actually kind of scared.

So...it's a little weird, a little freaky, a little sad, and very me...but I hope you guys enjoy it.

* * *

 **Chapter 51: Anticlimactic**

There were times Harry wondered if there was something wrong with him.

There were times when he felt like he had been swallowed up by his life, that he was adrift in a vast and lonely ocean; other times, he was a stranger to even his own thoughts, small and trapped inside his own head. There were times when he was immersed in a world full of magic and wonder, eager to explore and interact and just _live_ in a present full of people and things that had so much to offer; other times, the world was an incredibly dark place, a place he wished would just disappear in all its sickness, violence, and fear. There were times when he was confident, striding forward with a purpose; other times, he was paralyzed by guilt and hesitation. There were times when he was consumed by an unquenchable fury; other times, he was floating, unaffected and silent. Sometimes he didn't know how he felt. Sometimes he felt like he wasn't a real person at all.

There was this dichotomy, this divide, this inconsistency, and even though it felt so incredibly _wrong_ , he could think of no more genuine aspect of himself.

Yeah, there was definitely something wrong with him.

Not that he didn't already know that, really. The Dursleys had always reviled and disdained him; for the longest time, he was an inferior being, an unfortunate creature born into a hostile world where he, while being the one oppressed, remained the villain. He knew they were wrong – he knew that _they_ were the villains, but there would always be a part of him that had to acknowledge that they had, in part, been right. He wasn't a good person – he didn't think he was a bad person, but he was fairly certain he wasn't a good one either, and when he looked at the world around him, he saw that he was...different. Singular. Alone. There _was_ something wrong with him – he had just never dared voice this little fact, because he wasn't alone, not really. Tom was listening.

Tom, who never failed to point out his every fault, failure, and weakness. Tom, who knew Harry better than he knew himself. Tom, who seemed to revel in Harry's _wrongness._ It was a point of constant tension – yet another unpleasant feature of his incredibly complicated life – Tom's moral status, that is. Perhaps it wasn't even morality – perhaps it was just a matter of preference. Whatever it was, it made Tom encourage him to perform actions which widened the divide, which exacerbated Harry's wrongness. And yet, while it was indubitably the case that there was _something_ wrong with Tom, Tom was never wrong. Tom was always right, and he _knew_ that he was always right...and Harry often speculated that he didn't know how lucky he was.

 _You are...preoccupied._

Harry nodded absently, lifting his mug of orange pekoe tea to his lips and sipping, before wincing – he burnt his tongue.

 _Should I be concerned?_

Harry's lips twitched. "You're concerned about me?"

 _It is an hour after midnight and you are sitting idly in the Room of Requirement with a cup of tea in hand, when you could be either asleep or studying for your exams._ Tom sounded slightly annoyed and generally unimpressed.

"Maybe I just wanted to try out that boiling charm Remus taught me," Harry mused.

 _You could have done that in bed._

"I could have."

 _And yet you did not._

Harry's eyes drifted from the steaming mug in his hands to the flickering, softly crackling fire in front of him. "I wonder if I've somehow desecrated the Room of Hot Chocolate by drinking Remus's tea in here."

 _Harry._

Harry sighed. "I can't sleep."

 _Because you are preoccupied._

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah, I suppose so."

 _Is this preoccupation actually of substance, or are they the insignificant worries of an adolescent wizard?_ Tom asked, a little impatiently.

"I...really don't know. I guess I'm just a little...unnerved?"

 _By what?_ Tom sounded slightly more attentive now.

"I don't know, I just...it's so _quiet_."

 _It would be unusual if it was not at this time of night._

"No, I mean... _things_ are quiet. There's no...Philosopher's Stone, no Chamber of Secrets – no horcruxes to find and replace, no master soul to interfere with things. Things are so...simple, you know, quiet. Nothing's happening."

 _This past term has hardly been uneventful._

It was true – rumours and contrary opinions concerning Sirius's trial and subsequent acquittal had upset the natural rhythm of Hogwarts, and soon after things had returned to normal, Miranda Thistlebaum's article had once again thrown everything into chaos.

But even so, second term had otherwise passed quietly, and without anomaly or obstacle; classes went smoothly as expected, and the Order continued to meet regularly. Visits with Sirius and Remus were still a pleasant fixture of his weekends, and by the end of May, Sirius's release date was announced – July 12th, 1994 – the lateness of which demanded that Harry be appointed a temporary guardian for the three weeks between the end of term and Sirius's release, a fact that had troubled him considerably. He had grown even more troubled when he learned a few weeks ago that this temporary guardian was to be Professor Snape, of all people; the man had looked rather disgruntled about it when they spoke after Potions, so Harry didn't know why he had agreed to it in the first place, but he decided it was probably best not to ask.

Other than that, though, the rest of Term 2 was...quiet, routine. No magical artifacts, no dastardly plots, no murder attempts. All in all, it was utterly anticlimactic, which he had initially thought suited him just fine. That's what he had told himself – but when he was alone, late at night, and Tom was silent, he started to crave the lure of adventure and danger; his restlessness was unmistakable. It concerned him, having no grand purpose, no pressing goal, while the air around him still buzzed with the allure of his story – for the first time, he felt left out of his own life, and couldn't decide whether he was truly craving adventure, or instead complete and earnest normalcy.

But even stronger was the haunting impression that things were not as simple, not as easy as he and Tom thought. That the anticlimactic haze of Term 2's closing was a ruse. And apparently the impression was strong enough to cause a...preoccupation. And now he didn't know whether he should be flattered by Tom's 'concern' - for he knew Tom didn't quite know how to be concerned in the same way other people did - or annoyed with himself for not being able to hide his discontent.

"I know it hasn't been _uneventful_ , but it's all...it all seems to have worked out fine, and I've just got this feeling, this bad feeling that something's wrong, that there's something we're missing, that something isn't right but we don't know about it."

Tom was silent for a long moment, before he spoke up in a soft, thin sort of tone that told him that his words had not gone unheeded.

 _All is well._

Harry grimaced. "Do you really think so?"

 _If it is not, we cannot remove any obstacles until they present themselves._

Tom was right, of course. He supposed he should be taking the relative peace as proof that they had become very adept at quickly and easily dealing with obstacles. Engineering Sirius's release had been a complete success, and even the debacle with Miranda Thistlebaum and her intrusive article had been dealt with relatively neatly.

But it was still a debacle, to say the least.

His teachers were tactful about the whole ordeal, and treated him no different than they had before – they called on him in class, handed out a lot of perfect grades and house points, and smiled and nodded when they passed him in the hallways (with the notable exception of Professor Snape, of course). His classmates treated him differently, but that was to be expected; his peers lacked the sophistication of thought needed to feign indifference. The sixth and seventh years did a decent job, but that was about it.

As a rule, he found that there were four categories of people, the first being the aforementioned group who feigned indifference. Or perhaps it wasn't feigned, which was even better. Besides that one...well, he was thankful that the largest category was his favourite. They were the people who still seemed to pity him somewhat, but they looked at him admiringly, with respect; they were the people the damage control plan had actually worked on. The third group of people were the people that the plan didn't work quite as well on – the people who still outright pitied him. They were so blatant about it too, the way they apologized so profusely if they bumped into him, showered him with encouraging smiles, and stared sympathetically at him when they thought he wouldn't notice. There were a lot of Hufflepuffs in this group, and a large percentage were girls. It wasn't unexpected, but it was still annoying, and somewhat embarrassing. The last category was especially small but exceedingly irritating, and a few notable members of this category were rival quidditch players. These were the people who simply weren't very nice about the whole thing. Sirius called them arseholes. Or wankers. Or cu... Remus would scold him for even thinking the word.

Anyhow, they were the ones who made cupboard jokes and tripped him in the hallways and mockingly begged him not to tell the Daily Prophet; they were the ones who went on jeering about how he let a couple of muggles hurt him, and what a weak, pathetic child he was, complaining to the rest of the world about it. Luckily, there weren't many of these unreasonable people, but there were enough to try his patience. Fortunately, since he had to repeatedly placate his friends in order to spare them detentions and/or lost points, his frequent enunciation of "ignore them" served as a reminder to himself as well.

A few of them were caught by teachers and prefects, and were punished for their idiocy, but a month after the whole affair, there were still stragglers intent on making his life miserable. They didn't succeed, but he was bound to snap eventually, which is exactly what happened.

"Oh, look, it's the Boy-Who-Lived-in-the-Cupboard-Under-the-Stairs!" some stupid fourth year Gryffindor had called after him as they passed on the second floor corridor. It was sometime at the end of May, right after Slytherin had beat Gryffindor in the latest quidditch game.

As far as insults went, he was used to it, and it really wasn't that bad, objectively. It wasn't clever at all. It was actually quite sad. But enough was enough, and suffice it to say that said fourth year Gryffindor wouldn't be using his book bag ever again, nor the textbooks or stationary items that were inside.

Because they were a pile of cinders on the floor of the second floor corridor.

At this point in his life, Harry had mastered lighting things on fire and didn't require a wand or incantation, or even much thought at all, to do it, but the fourth year Gryffindor had still, miraculously, deduced that it was him and wouldn't just let it go, and so they ended up standing in front of a visibly irritated Professor Snape.

"Well?" the Potions Professor drawled after Clara Rosier - one of the few witnesses - dropped them off in front of him.

"Lewis was mocking the traumatic ordeal that was my childhood," Harry deadpanned, utterly fed up at that point. "Sir."

Lewis turned his furious gaze to him, at that. "That's not – he lit my bag on fire!" he spat out.

Professor Snape quirked an unimpressed eyebrow at him, and then turned to Harry. "Did you light Lewis's bag on fire, Potter?"

Harry raised his eyebrows and put a haphazardly innocent look on his face. "I did no such thing, Professor. I just walked away. My wand was in my pocket the whole time."

"Don't lie, you little -"

"Did Potter draw his wand?"

Lewis scowled. "No, but -"

"Hm. Did he say an incantation?"

"No, but -"

"Well then -"

"You saw him with that newspaper!" Lewis blurted out, "He doesn't need a wand! He's some sort of freak -!"

"Ten points from Gryffindor, for interrupting a teacher," Professor Snape hissed menacingly, "Five for insulting another student, make that ten because you've done it twice. Now, dismissed."

Lewis gaped, his face a bright shade of red. Not Gryffindor red, mind you – it was more of a pinkish sort of red. Closer to salmon, you know? "But my bag -"

"It's called spontaneous combustion, Lewis – a rare phenomenon but not unheard of. I suggest you look it up. _Dismissed._ "

Suffice it to say that Harry was relieved that, when it came to detentions and lost points, his being a Slytherin trumped him being a Potter in Professor Snape's eyes.

Lewis had tried to hex him after that, but Harry just deflected the spell back at him and walked away, and that was the end of it. After that, the Gryffindors seemed to be divided on whether to be angry with Harry or Lewis over the lost points, but there were no more incidents, at the very least.

All and all, though, that was the most dramatic event to have come out of the whole Daily Prophet ordeal.

But there were also some decidedly positive category-2 type reactions as well, particularly among his housemates. Sure, there were some older Slytherins who liked to make snide comments once in the confines of their common room, but they were fairly consistently told off by Clara Rosier, until Harry took matters into his own hands and cast the nightmare curse on one particularly annoying sixth year. He removed it before it did any real damage, of course, but that seemed to deter any further inconveniences. After all, Tom thought it was about time to remind his housemates who they were dealing with.

Other than those few, though, several of his older classmates seemed genuinely impressed with his letter, and actually wanted to talk to him now. They'd even roped him into a couple of debates, where his knowledge of the muggle world was taken advantage of.

It was both interesting and concerning, how little some of his pureblood housemates knew about the muggle world; they didn't know about the moon landing, what missiles or machine guns or mines were, what the Cold War was, or anything about technologies like telephones or computers. Some didn't even know about atomic bombs, or even the Holocaust, let alone the Vietnam War or the Armenian Genocide. They'd never heard the term mutually assured destruction. They had no idea what muggles were capable of. He, of course, sought to rectify this.

"They might not have magic, but they're clever, and dangerous, and we can't afford to underestimate them. If we're not careful, they could kill us all."

He'd gotten several skeptical looks but even more grim nods at that. Hermione would have just hit him over the head, so it was a pleasant change.

In the meantime, in return for his extensive knowledge of muggles, he was given vast amounts of information on both the Wizarding World and the Ministry of Magic. Many of his housemates' parents worked at least in tandem with the Ministry, and so they had a lot of inside information that he wouldn't have otherwise been privy to. Information about how departments were funded, who drafted bills, who approved them, and the process for doing so.

More than ever, he became convinced that Tom was right. Nepotism, partisanship, and corruption ran rampant in the Ministry of Magic; many of his housemates joked about it and spoke of how their relatives or friends of relatives used it to their advantage, but it really wasn't a laughing matter. The tax system wasn't scaled like it should be and too much Ministry funding came from regular, wealthy donors who had too much say in where the money went. Wizengamot seats were either bequeathed or assigned by the Minister of Magic, who was elected by way of what was essentially a popularity contest. Sure, that was democracy for you, but that didn't mean he had to like it. The whole thing needed to go, Tom was right.

In the meantime, Daphne fawned over him and was sweeter than ever, and Tracey no longer badgered him for information...not as frequently, at least. Parkinson no longer scowled whenever he entered a room, and Millicent seemed a little less frosty and intimidated by him now, which was certainly a good thing; Crabbe and Goyle were more awkward around him than ever, though, but he hadn't really expected better. Zabini...well, he was a category 1 for sure, but he also seemed to resent Harry a lot less, and seemed to actually acknowledge him as a person to some degree. Before it was just an unhealthy mixture of disdain, resentment, and fear, which could get awkward if they both happened to be in a bad mood at the same time. So there was that.

But there were some notable outliers, when it came to his fairly comprehensive categories.

Draco...was more affected than he pretended to be; if one looked closely, they would be able to see that he was clearly rattled by the whole thing. He simply wasn't the same; there were times he would look solemn, staring at the wall as though in deep thought - an action no one would have thought Draco Malfoy capable of - and times when he would speak in a low, distracted tone. The sullen affair that was Draco's demeanour culminated in two short words that he had uttered to Harry in the Room of Requirement when no one else remained.

"I'm sorry."

Harry had stared at him for a good minute, after that, while the other boy refused to return his gaze. He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know what Draco was sorry about, or what he thought was his fault. He didn't know why Draco was feeling so bad in the first place. He didn't understand, and he didn't both asking, because he had this feeling that he wouldn't be able to.

After a while, though, he settled on, "It wasn't all terrible. I got to live with the knowledge that I could have poisoned them or burnt their house down at any given point in time. That was empowering."

Draco met his his eyes with an incredulous look on his face.

"You're bloody insane," he finally responded.

They'd both had a bit of a laugh at that, and things began to normalize thereafter, much to Harry's relief.

Theo...well, Theo was a category 1. Which was entirely unexpected, and made him an outlier nonetheless. His reaction hadn't been one of shock or horror or even knowing acceptance. He hadn't had a reaction. He had expressed his admiration of Harry's writing skills, but that was about it. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and still, he greeted Harry at the breakfast table with a bowl of strawberries, begged for Harry's help in Transfiguration, made bets on duels he knew he'd lose, and gave facetious and occasionally scathing commentary on their daily lives at Hogwarts. There was no reaction, no interrogation, no discussion. It was just...constant, and Harry didn't know whether he liked it or not. He still wasn't sure what he was going to do about it either...but he had this nagging feeling that something had to be done - a fact that was constantly in the back of his mind these days.

And aside for those two...well, there were two people who saw through his damage control tactic; two people who, to some extent, saw it for what it really was. At least he was only _aware_ of two people...

The first was Hermione. She had approached him on Monday evening after staring at him intermittently during classes throughout the day, and asked if they could talk in the Room of Hot Chocolate. He had, of course, complied.

"Why did you write that letter?" she asked quietly as soon as the doors shut behind them.

He shrugged, unworried. He had expected the question. "I was taken advantage of, Hermione. Did you expect me to do nothing?"

She looked a little affronted, at that. "No, of course not, I just – why didn't you just say so?"

His eyebrows rose. "And look even weaker than I already did?"

"It's not about that, Harry!"

"That's _all_ it's about," Harry argued, "Fame and rumours, the writers that blow it up in everyone's faces – it's about being more real, more important than someone else's life. It's not just exploitation – it's fictionalization. It's about placing a certain majority on a higher existential level than someone, and getting to be the person on top who assigns all these values. It's messed up, Hermione, really messed up. And I refuse to be stuck on the bottom!"

Hermione gaped at him for a moment. "I've...never thought about it like that before..." she stammered.

"Yeah, well, I've thought about it a lot in the last couple of days."

"Yes, well," Hermione began, still a little flustered, "That doesn't explain why you didn't just tell everyone to mind their own business."

"I'm not a _Gryffindor_ ," Harry said, unable to completely keep the disdain out of his voice.

Hermione scowled at him. "Fine! But still, you can't tell me that there was no political angle to that letter. I'm not stupid!"

"Of course there was a 'political angle'- " No point in denying it.

" _Exactly -_ "

"Because someone needed to say something, Hermione. The Ministry of Magic is _incredibly_ irresponsible when it comes to magical children in the muggle world. They don't watch over us, they don't protect us, and they don't let us protect ourselves. Something needs to change, and fast."

"And that's fine Harry – it's an important issue, I know it is – but did you really not think about what the other consequences will be? There are already so many witches and wizards who hate muggles, but most of them just look down on them. But what happens if they start to see muggles as a threat? That could completely change how the average magical person interacts with muggles! And if these new interactions don't line up with the Ministry of Magic's established policies – and not only the Ministry of Magic, the International-"

"You're missing the point, Hermione."

"Am I? Because I think a lot of people will miss that point – I think you've already seen a lot of people miss that point, namely your housemates – and missing the point could actually have serious consequences in this case!"

"Saying that you think a lot of people will miss the point is just conjecture."

"You made it exceptionally easy to miss the point, Harry!"

"That's not fair -"

"Isn't it? 'One exception is too many' – absolutist thinking. 'Morally deficient policies' – calls into doubt that the Ministry of Magic is a trustworthy institution. 'Left defenceless' – implies that the muggle world is an inherently dangerous place. 'Those who would take this away from them out of fear or spite' – suggests that the magical world is something we can lose and that someone would want to take it away from us out of jealousy or anger, namely muggles! Your letter is _full_ of Red Herrings!"

" _Everything_ I said was true _and_ relevant. One exception _is_ too many, many of the Ministry's policies _are_ morally deficient, and the muggle world _is_ a dangerous place, just like the magical world. And as for taking the magical world away, the Dursleys -"

"Are _freaks_! They are abnormal monsters, Harry, and _muggles aren't like that!_ "

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but fell silent for a long moment. He only opened his mouth when he arrived at a decision.

"You're right. I wanted to scare people. I wanted to cause the Ministry of Magic problems."

"But _why_?"

Harry sighed. "Because I want things to change. And people don't change unless they have to. People don't look for solutions unless their old ones stop working."

"And what if nobody finds a solution?"

"Someone just needs to give it to them."

"And who's going to give us this solution?"

"...I'm working on it."

"Harry! This isn't a game!" She was frustrated nearly to the point of tears by then.

"I know, that's why I'm completely serious about it."

"Then surely - surely you know that there are ways to make change without scaring people! I just, I can't believe you're saying these things! I can't believe you'd actually try to actively scare people into mistrusting the Ministry of Magic to get what you want! What are you _doing_ , Harry!?"

At that point, it had become clear to him that things were spinning out of control. Hermione wasn't going to agree with him. She just wasn't. And by then he was starting to panic, internally, as this fear gripped him - that if Hermione saw through his letter, saw through him, she'd never want to speak to him again. She wouldn't want to be his friend. She'd leave. And he couldn't let her leave. He just couldn't.

So he prepared to summon some tears to his eyes and started shouting too. She started it, after all.

"I'm doing what's right, Hermione, I'm helping people!"

"By scaring people, Harry? That's _never_ the right thing! That's not how you create positive change in the world!"

"Well how am I supposed to know that!?" He flavoured his voice with anger and desperation, measuring it carefully as to not over-act. "Everything I do, Hermione, everything - it's because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't do them! Why did I learn magic!? You know the answer, don't you? Because you're so clever!"

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"You know it's because - because I -" He paused, unsure of whether he wanted to verbalize this shameful fact; half a second later he decided it was for the best. "Because I was _afraid of them!"_ He took a deep breath. "I learned magic because I was afraid," he repeated in a much quieter voice, a voice that withered and shook ever so slightly, "I was afraid of them."

She had staring at him with wide eyes, at that point, and he could see that the frosty indignation in her eyes had cracked, leaving behind a misty tenderness.

 _"_ I was afraid, so I did something, and I'm better off for it," he said quietly, forcing his voice to crack. "I'm better now. Is it wrong to want everyone else to be better too? I just want to help. Because maybe...maybe if they're a little afraid now, one day they'll never be afraid again. Everything will be better. Like me." He released a shuddering breath. "Like me."

By then Hermione had closed the space between them and pulled him into a warm embrace, gripping the back of his robes tightly.

"I just wanted to help," he whispered.

She took a step back, hands still on his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. They both had tears in their eyes now, stubbornly refusing to fall.

"There are better ways to help, Harry. There are better ways to help people."

He looked at her sincerely. "But don't know how." It was true. He didn't.

She smiled sadly. "Then _ask for help_."

And then they spent an hour talking about childcare in the magical world and the student support programs that Hogwarts should have, while Tom laughed in his head about how the whole thing was so sickeningly delicious. Tom's words, not his. He hadn't felt his friend that amused in...well, maybe ever.

In the end, Hermione had left the room with a few pages of notes and was determined to write a letter to Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall requesting either a peer support program or a formal counselling service in the school. Preferably both. A month later, Professor McGonagall had called Hermione into her office, saying that she had spoken with Professor Dumbledore, and they would be looking into the idea over the summer. Hermione had been immensely pleased.

So he counted it as a success. He didn't lie. He didn't say anything that wasn't true. He just...faked some anger and tears and yelled a bit. And only good things came out of it. It was the right thing to do, right?

Right?

But of course not everything could be that easy.

Since that fateful Monday morning, Harry knew that the Headmaster knew about his intentions – to some degree, at least. He knew that the man knew that Harry was trying to accomplish something with his letter - that he was, well, being a Slytherin. He, like Hermione, had likely picked up on the message he was trying to send. The man's expression had made that clear. But he hadn't expected anything to come of it; Professor Dumbledore, in his experience, was a man who liked to leave well enough alone; he knew that, at the very least, the elderly professor had chosen to overlook the hasty attempt at an active mental barrier he'd constructed after the first Chamber of Secrets incident. As it turned out, though, the man had overlooked a lot more. No, overlooked wasn't quite the right word, not really.

He _knew._ Professor Dumbledore knew that he had been lying to him; he knew that he found the Chamber of Secrets; he knew he was a parselmouth; there was even an undeniable possibility that he knew Harry had lied about how he cleansed Tom's diary. He and Tom had drastically underestimated the Headmaster's intelligence and insight, and the professor had been right – Harry _had_ mistaken silence for ignorance. All this time, he and Tom had thought themselves so very clever, so very discrete, when really, they were being watched all this time. Professor Dumbledore knew he was a seasoned liar; he knew exactly what to look for; he knew exactly when Harry had been trying to deceive him. He _knew._

It had been _baffling_. He had never, ever felt so small. It was different, from being locked in a cupboard, from being insulted and belittled and reviled. Professor Dumbledore didn't act like a villain - he was _kind_ ; he was _pleasant_. He _acknowledged_ Harry and looking at him, Harry could just tell...he knew deep down that the man _cared_. He hadn't looked down on Harry. He had simply dwarfed him.

He never noticed, the first time he talked to the Headmaster, the way his eyes picked you apart into little pieces, as they sparkled a pleasant blue; he never noticed that they saw _everything._ Harry had tried so hard to keep it together, to centre himself, to practise what 5 long years of occlumency training had taught him - but he _knew_ , just _knew_ , that the man saw it; every time his hand twitched, every time his eyes widened, every time his skin paled or reddened, every time his breath quickened only slightly. He had felt like an open book, he had felt _so_ _simple_.

And then he'd just lost it! He started ranting unreservedly about his feelings and beliefs. There was something about the Headmaster that made him just...just...the man made him _want_ to reveal all his secrets. He didn't know what it was, what he did, but for a moment he'd wanted to say it.

 _I'm a horcrux. Help me._

He had no idea where it had come from. He didn't need help. Certainly not from the man who - according to Tom - would kill him if he knew what he was. It didn't make any sense. None of it. After he left the Headmaster's office, _nothing had made any sense._ In all honesty, it had taken him the better part of a month to completely pull himself together.

Because he had a lot to pull together. He needed to rethink so many things. He had to rethink how to deal with the Headmaster; he and Tom could no longer sneak around, believing that they wouldn't be noticed. They were being watched - that much was evident - and they would be even more closely watched now, now that he had truly caught Professor Dumbledore's interest. He wouldn't be able to avoid him. They'd speak again, he knew - and though he couldn't admit it to Tom, there was something about the prospect of meeting the elderly wizard again that excited him.

Which meant he also needed to rethink how he thought about Professor Dumbledore. Before, the professor had been a faceless threat - the archenemy that was the single greatest threat to his existence. He was a powerful wizard who knew too much, and that was it. But that wasn't it, not really. Professor Dumbledore had taken the time to speak with him, to try to teach him, to drive him to think harder about what he had said and done. He hadn't condemned Harry for his letter - he tried to force him to consider the implications of what he had said. And more than that - he had apologized. He had _apologized_. He didn't have to, and he certainly didn't have to look so genuinely morose and grim; he didn't have to exude so much grief and guilt. The man wasn't a faceless threat anymore; he was more complex than that. He was a person. He was real.

The professor had forced him to rethink his goals. He'd thought that when he and Tom controlled the Ministry, they'd be able to protect magical children and keep everyone safe. But of course it wasn't that simple. Everything they did would require resources - time, people, money - and they only had so much available to them, even after they took control of the Ministry. He expressed his concerns to Tom, who said that he would take care of the particulars. But Harry didn't feel satisfied with that - it wasn't that he didn't trust Tom, he just...wasn't satisfied.

And speaking of Tom, he had been _furious._ Harry knew Tom wasn't angry with _him_ , but it hardly mattered – Tom's anger and hatred were always painful, regardless of their target, and suffice it to say, Tom had an almost irrational and frantic hatred of the Headmaster – because the barrage of pain he had unleashed on him once they reached his dorm was nearly unbearable. Perhaps more unnerving, however, was that Harry had to talk his friend down from a haphazard plan to assassinate the old man. Because they couldn't. Albus Dumbledore was arguably the most powerful wizard alive, whereas Harry and Tom...well, they weren't. Not even close, at this point, really. Tom conceded, of course, once he calmed down, but was in a terrible mood for weeks to come. And this terrible mood had prompted him to rethink something else.

Tom. 'A man who has lost everything'. At first he had told himself to ultimately disregard what the professor had told him about Tom, but Tom's terrible mood had affected Harry as well, and left him feeling more than a little bit resentful over the whole thing. And that made him think...was Tom the villain Professor Dumbledore had said he was?

Of course not. The Voldemort that Professor Dumbledore knew was, perhaps, but not his Tom. Surely not his Tom. But then he started thinking...what did the professor mean? Was Tom trapped inside his own mind? He was trapped in Harry's, but...

Had Tom sacrificed his future for an empty dream? Surely not - Tom had yet to accomplish goals, but he and Harry definitely had a future...right? Had Tom lost his humanity? Perhaps...he had always regarded Tom as something more than human, but he'd never considered that it might be the case that Tom had actually _lost_ something in order to get there. But of course Tom was more than just a villain. He was a visionary. Of course would amount to something; he had already - he was one of the most powerful dark wizards to ever live, and he had nearly brought Wizarding Britain to its knees; that was amounting to something...right? And when he and Tom fixed the Wizarding World, they would be heroes. Or had Professor Dumbledore meant something else entirely?

He didn't know. The whole things was _so_ confusing, and before he knew it, he found himself doubting Tom, which he simply could not do. Tom was always right. Tom had saved him. Tom made him who he was. Tom was his best friend. The _least_ he could do was trust him. And he did...but he didn't think the Headmaster's words would ever truly leave him; part of him knew he'd never be able to forget those questions. He was a terrible friend.

Honestly, _what_ was wrong with him? Actually though. _What_ was wrong with -

 _-arry. Harry._

Harry blinked. "Were you saying something?"

Tom made a displeased sound. _I said that in the absence of any apparent obstacles, I would strongly suggest you drink or vanish the rest of this quickly cooling tea and either review your transfiguration notes or sleep._

"Still concerned about me then?"

 _Yes, Harry, I am concerned. Now drink the tea, and sleep._

Tom had been suspiciously nice after he'd gotten over his anger which followed their meeting with the Headmaster; he had made Harry black out for 2 hours from all the pain he'd suffered through because of Tom's fury - three times. Harry knew that Tom never did anything without a reason, but he chose to believe that his friend felt bad about the whole thing. After all, Tom was always telling _him_ to reign in his temper.

"The caffeine might keep me awake."

 _Harry._

Harry's lips twitched. _:Yes, Tom.:_

None of it mattered, in the end. None of it. Tom was his friend. It was a fact. It was a decision he made long ago, and he accepted the consequences. And as Tom's best friend, it was his duty to see good in him when no one else could. Everything was fine. Tom was right. Tom was always right.

* * *

" _Protego! Reducto! Expulso -"_

" _Protego!"_

" _\- Locomotor Mortis!"_

That one hit Draco, and he tumbled over, losing his wand in the process.

"Cover me, Theo!" Hermione called, as she pointed her wand at Draco. _"Fini -"_

" _Interfodio!"_

"I said, _cover me,_ " Hermione ground out as she hopped out of the way of Harry's curse. _"Finite."_

"I was trying! _Reducto!"_

"Where's my wand?!"

"Oh for god's sake, Malfoy -"

"Watch it, Granger -"

"Or _what_ , Mal-"

" _Stupefy!_ Will you two _stop it?"_

" _Stupefy!"_

Harry easily sidestepped Hermione's stunning charm, having blocked Theo's with a wordless _protego_ a moment earlier. _"Aguamenti! Glacius! Oppugno!"_

" _Protego!"_

" _Protego!"_

" _Protego!"_

" _Petrificus totalis!"_

Hermione toppled over.

"Shit, Hermione! _Fini -"_

" _Expeliarmus! Stupefy!"_

Theo fell over as well, unconscious, leaving Draco standing there awkwardly.

"I surrender."

Harry stared at him.

Draco stared back.

"So...do you accept my surrender?"

Harry pursed his lips. "I'm debating on it."

"Debating on what!?"

"Whether to still curse you or not."

"Oh, come on, Harry."

Harry grinned. "Fine, fine." He pointed his wand at Hermione. _"Finite."_

Hermione gasped, and winced as she rose to her feet. "That curse will be brutal in a few decades." She glanced over at Draco, scowling. "You surrendered. Again."

Draco quirked an eyebrow. "And if I did?"

Hermione sniffed disdainfully. "Slytherins."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Granger. Anyhow, I've got to go meet Pansy."

Hermione nodded as Draco made his way toward the door. "And I need to find that one last book on warding before our last meeting."

"Alright, well, see you around," Harry said absently, lifting his diary out of his pocket and scratching some notes down.

 _'Attempt to diversify spell choices in 3 on 1 duels.'_

"Aren't you going to wake Theo?" Hermione asked.

Harry glanced up at her and shrugged.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

 _'You're getting stagnant and uncreative.'_

A moment later, he heard the door slam shut.

Harry looked down at Theo, laughing a little at the strange face he always made when he was stunned.

They'd started spending more time together again, just the two of them. Over the past month and a half he'd begun to once again take refuge in Theo's presence; the only consistency left in his life. His friend had remained unaffected, unchanged through everything that had happened over the last couple of months – he remained exactly the same person Harry had befriended. But spending more time with Theo made him wonder – wonder _why_ Theo was unaffected, why he, too, seemed to crave normalcy and reminiscence above all else. It occurred to him, after a while, that something might be wrong; that Theo might be affected after all, but remained silent out of some secret conviction. What he could do about this...he had no idea, so he just kept bantering, joking, and duelling, hoping that whatever was going on without his knowledge would eventually rise to the surface.

Sighing, he picked up Theo's wand, sat down, and pointed his own wand at his friend. _"Rennervate."_

Theo's eyes shot open and he gasped.

"Bloody hell – you stunned me!" He sat up and rubbed his head.

Harry grinned, handing Theo's wand to him. "I did."

"Oh Merlin, I made that stupid face again, didn't I?"

Harry chuckled, leaning back against the wall. "You did."

Theo scowled. "It's not like I can help it."

"No, you definitely can't do that."

Theo narrowed his eyes. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Stunning me over and over again."

"Maybe."

Theo rolled his eyes. "Bastard."

He leaned back against the wall as well, beside Harry, as he swiped his sleeve over his forehead, mopping up the film of sweat that had settled there.

"Where are Hermione and Draco?"

"Hermione's gone to the library, and Draco promised he'd meet up with Pansy."

Theo nodded slowly. "One more meeting, right?"

Harry shrugged. "Well, we're gone at the end of next week, so there's not really time for anymore. Unless you've thought of some last minute practise we need to get in."

"Not really."

The both fell silent.

"I really don't want to go back this year," Theo admitted suddenly.

Harry frowned, a little puzzled by the odd announcement. His stomach churned when he realized that's exactly how his conversation with Hermione started...when he first told her about the Dursleys. "Why? It's just you and your father, right?"

Theo scowled darkly, at that, and Harry was taken aback – this was the most expressive he'd seen Theo in months. "That's the problem."

Harry just stared at him, not quite knowing what to say, and not wanting to mess this up.

"We had an argument, at Christmas. Well, that's not...I yelled at him, threatened him, and he nearly cursed me."

Well that was certainly concerning. "He nearly cursed you? With what?"

Theo shrugged. "Who knows. He knows _a lot_ of curses, and he's good enough to cast them all wordlessly, so there's no way to know for sure..."

"Would he...actually do it?"

Theo shrugged again, uncomfortably. "He's threatened before, but he never follows through. I swear though, New Years day, he was ready to _crucio_ me."

Harry went white in the face and his hands tightened around his wand. "If he did that I'd -"

Theo let out a short, derisive laugh. "You'd do what, get him arrested? He's built up an immunity to veritaserum, and he'd be able to fix both our memories; he's too good to get caught -"

"- I'd kill him."

Theo's eyes went wide, and he looked somewhere between horrified and touched. Maybe a little bit of both. "You'd do that? For me?"

"Unless you asked me not to. Would you?" In hindsight, that was probably a cruel question to ask.

Theo pursed his lips, eyes troubled. "I...yeah, I would. We don't always get along, and he's a right bastard...but he takes care of me. I think he cares. I don't imagine he'd put up with me if he didn't. Besides, I can't let him die...there's something I need him to do first."

Harry nodded slowly. "What were you fighting about anyway?"

Theo smiled wryly. "He caught me stealing dark arts books from his library – you know, for the spells I copied over for your Christmas present -"

"Thanks for that, by the way."

"Don't mention it. Anyway, he caught me, and...yeah...he wasn't impressed."

"I thought he didn't mind you learning dark magic. I thought he was happy about it."

"...he is. But he wants to be absolutely sure I'm not learning anything from him."

Harry frowned, puzzled. "Why not?"

Theo's eyes flickered down to his hands. "My mum...she made him promise not to teach me. She didn't want me getting involved in...everything."

Harry nodded. For a moment, he said nothing, but in the end, he couldn't help but ask, "What did you threaten him with?"

Theo shrugged. "To get him arrested."

"For being a Death Eater?"

Theo shook his head.

"Then what?"

Theo stared at him, but said nothing, and after a few moments Harry started to get the impression that he wouldn't get an answer.

Finally, though, Theo closed his eyes, a moment later opening them and casting them at the ceiling. "I threatened to tell the truth about how my mother died."

"You never did tell me how that happened," Harry commented musingly, trying not to sound as curious as he felt.

Theo turned his head, and looked him straight in the eye. "You can't tell anyone. Ever. If someone's going to turn him in, it will be me. And I will someday, I swear."

"I'd never say a word."

Theo nodded curtly, but still hesitated for a moment. "He killed her."

Harry's eyes widened.

 _Well, that is certainly unexpected. Nott was quite taken with Lyanna. She must have truly earned his ire, considerable as it often was._

Harry nearly grimaced at Tom's callous comment.

"When I was seven years old. The killing curse. I saw it...I saw it all. I still don't know why he didn't just _obliviate_ me..."

Harry stared at his friend's pained face, unable to keep a shocked and greatly unnerved expression off his. To think...that Theo had seen something so horrible and had kept quiet about it all this time. Didn't he trust him? How much had this affected his friend? How could he have missed _so much?_ And why...didn't any of it make any sense? Why would someone do something like that? "But...to keep a promise he made years ago, even though she's dead...didn't he love her? You only do that for people you love, right?" he couldn't help but ask.

Theo looked back up at the ceiling, wiping his eyes. "I think he did. But he was angry...really angry. He gets like that sometimes. They'd been fighting for a while, I don't know what about...I've always been too afraid to ask...but I know that...the night _it_ happened, she threatened to turn him in. Threatened to tell the Ministry he was a Death Eater, a _real_ Death Eater. I don't think she would have done it, not after keeping his secret for so long...I don't think he believed she would either, I don't know...I really don't know...I just..."

Meanwhile, Harry was enduring a great deal of inner turmoil. He was pretty sure that when your best friend is crying – because, subtle as it was, Theo was _definitely_ crying – you're supposed to give them a hug - that's certainly what Hermione would do - but that would be physically awkward given the positions they were sitting in. The most obvious substitute would be to hold Theo's hand, like Madame Pomfrey did for him, but he wasn't completely sure if that was something friends did.

Harry hesitated, but in the end, he decided that it was the appropriate course of action – he reached out and placed his hand on Theo's. The other boy pulled his hand away on reflex, but just as Harry was about to withdraw his, Theo reached out and took Harry's hand in his.

"I've never told anyone that," he whispered. "Not even Draco knows, and I've known him forever."

Harry said nothing, and for a long time, they sat in silence, Harry staring down at their entwined hands and Theo staring off into space.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Theo asked quietly, after a few minutes.

Harry's eyes didn't leave their hands, oddly unnerved and fascinated by the action he himself had initiated. "About what?"

"About how bad it was. About the cupboard. About being locked away for days at a time."

Harry shrugged, withdrawing his hand.

Theo's eyes were trained on him now. "They put you in a _cupboard -"_

"Why are you bringing this up now?" Harry asked sharply. "The story was published nearly two months ago. You didn't say anything about it then."

Theo scowled. "I didn't want to force you -"

"Then don't."

"Harry!"

" _What?"_

Theo was looking at him with unreserved desperation now, his eyes pleading. "Please, Harry, you're my best friend. Why didn't you trust me? I just told you that my _dad_ killed my _mum –_ you would have never found out on your own...but would you have even thought of telling me about what the Dursleys were like, what they were _really_ like, unless that story was published?"

"Probably not, no," Harry admitted flatly.

Theo's pathetic expression twisted into another scowl. "And you wrote a letter to the Daily Prophet before you told me! Am I really that untrustworthy?"

Harry sighed. "It's not that I don't trust you, Theo. I just...remember what I said when you asked me about revenge in one of your letters?"

"That you would leave, and never think of them again," Theo replied instantly, not even having to think about it.

"That's all I wanted. They don't _deserve_ my attention or anyone else's. They're _muggles_ , and they're weak, cruel vermin, and I don't want to think of them ever again. But now I can't have what I want, ever. People will always remember. And they'll never let me forget, no matter how hard I try."

"Well maybe you shouldn't forget! Maybe -" he stuttered to a halt. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I just..."

"Do you really think they're worth remembering?" Harry asked quietly.

Theo steeled himself. "It's not about them – it's about you. You're strong, Harry – you're one of the strongest people I know – but you can't tell me that this is really nothing to you. It's not about the fact that they're muggles, it's about the fact that they hurt you, and that that's all you knew for a long time. Nobody's strong enough to forget that. I see things, Harry, I know how people work - and you haven't forgotten, and you won't anytime soon."

Harry stifled a glare. "If you're so concerned, then why have you been pretending like nothing's happened this whole time?"

"I knew that you were going through enough – but that doesn't mean you can go on like this forever. I just want to help. That's all."

"I've been dealing with this a long time, Theo. I know what I want. Trust me."

Theo stared at him for a long moment, before he sighed. "I guess it's your choice."

"It was," Harry corrected. "But they took that choice away from me. That's why I wrote the letter – at least they'll remember what I had to say about it now, too."

Theo nodded slowly, pausing. "It was a good letter."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I know."

Theo chuckled, weakly. It was a little forced. "You should be a politician. Minister of Magic. I'd vote for you."

Harry smiled wryly. "Maybe one day. Let's get past our OWLs first."

Theo's blinked, his expression suddenly more open and bemused. "What, really? You _actually_ want to be a politician?"

Harry shrugged. "I want to get things done."

Theo looked at him strangely. "Get _what_ done?"

"Fixing things."

"Fixing _what_?"

"The world."

Theo frowned at him. "You want to fix...the world?"

"It's all wrong, Theo," Harry said, pleased with the change of subject, "Muggles – they're weak, cruel creatures...sure, not all of them, but enough of them..." Was that Tom talking, or him? It didn't really matter. "...and the Ministry makes it _so easy_ for them to hurt young witches and wizards and get away with it, and no one cares. We write laws to keep the _muggles_ from getting hurt, but what about us? It's our _right_ to grow up in _our_ world, where we _belong_ , but instead we're left as freaks, as abnormalities in the muggle world. We don't belong there, none of us do."

Theo pursed his lips. "But what do you think _you_ can do about it?"

"Alone? Nothing. But the Ministry of Magic – they _could_. We could go and find children, bring them into our world before they even get a chance to suffer in the muggle one. We could _rescue_ them."

He didn't know quite why he said that - he supposed a part of him was bursting, urging him to tell _someone_ about his and Tom's plans. And a part of him knew they'd need help, if they were ever going to get anything done.

Or maybe...maybe he was just looking for someone to tell him that he was wrong. That he was crazy. That his and Tom's plan had to be rethought and reconstructed. He didn't know.

Meanwhile, Theo's eyebrows rose, and he looked a little alarmed. "You want to take muggleborns away from their parents?"

Harry hesitated, his brain still having to catch up with his mouth. "Not if their parents are willing to keep their children out of the muggle world." That sounded reasonable, right?

"And if they're not?"

"Then yes, take them away." He steeled himself. "It's a security risk, to show our world to little children who have muggle friends and go to muggle school, but they deserve to be here."

It was, obviously.

"So then..."

"Total isolation," Harry said decidedly. It made sense, didn't it? It was what everything was pointing to - the culmination of everything that he knew. It was a good idea, wasn't it? A really good idea. It might have been Tom's idea...but it could be his as well. "Don't you see? Then the muggles can't threaten us with their weapons, then we don't have to go through so many convoluted measures to hide, then we don't end up with people like Voldemort who think we should kill all the muggles, because they won't even matter anymore."

"You _do_ realize how crazy this sounds, right?"

Of course it was crazy...but it didn't have to be. "Why does it have to be crazy? Wizardkind can't reach its true potential while we're weighed down by the muggles. We need to separate ourselves. We have so much potential, Theo, all of us! Magic is without bounds, without limits." Yes, yes, that's exactly right. It made so much more sense when he said it out loud.

Theo looked at him incredulously. "That's...not true..." he stuttered.

"It is effectively. Sure, there are physical limits to what we can do, but conceptually – we can cure deadly diseases, build monuments in minutes, bring dreams to life, defy death! We've grown lazy, Theo, too fixated on things that don't matter – muggles, blood purity, politics – but we could be so much more! We could be pushing the boundaries of magical possibility. We could be protecting magical children, building empires impossible for muggles to reach, exploring the stars, but instead we write Muggle Protection Acts and slaughter our own kind because of some messed up idea that the purity of someone's blood actually matters."

Theo's mouth had fallen open.

"We could have so much, but we're holding ourselves back. The Ministry of Magic – it's a corrupt, outdated, useless institution, and Wizengamot is full of old purebloods who have no idea what the rest of the magical world needs. We're too afraid to let go of the past, but if we have the courage to discard the things that make us weak, to move forward, then...then we could do anything. We could all be happy. We could have peace."

Theo was looking at him with wide eyes, mouth still open, looking both bewildered and enraptured.

"You...you're serious, aren't you?"

"More serious than I've ever been about anything. This is our future, Theo."

Theo was silent for a moment, before he nodded slowly. "Right then. Let's do this."

Harry stared at him - the words didn't quite register.

"You're right. You're completely right. The Ministry of Magic – it's not what we need; it's mediocre and ineffective. _Somebody_ needs to do something about it – why shouldn't it be us?"

A smile began to spread across Harry's lips – a genuine smile giddy with hope. He was far away from himself now - this didn't feel like him. This didn't feel like his life. It was too easy. It was too simple. But it was good.

"You're brilliant, Harry, you're smart, and talented, and brave, and powerful, and a good leader, and you know how to do what's right. And I'm...well, I'd follow you anywhere, I really would, and I can do everything you can't. And together, we could start a revolution. You're right. We could do anything. We just need to make people listen."

Harry's smile was unrestrained now. "Let's do it then." He pulled his diary and a quill out of his pocket, and began writing. "We'll change the Ministry, and then we'll change the world. It's a promise."

* * *

" _Exbibo Metus."_

Harry could feel it - the anxiety, the tenseness, the burden weighing on him so heavily. The fear. It was foreign, even though it was his. It started at his finger-tips but it got under his skin, and crawled up his arms to his heart, and gripped it tight, twisting.

 _I want this,_ he told himself, _Your pain is my pain._

"Alright, good, it's working."

Harry nodded quickly, and exhaled shakily. _"Finite."_

" _Ridikulus!"_

The boggart fled, and Harry pocketed his wand, wiping the sweat off his forehead. It wasn't easy, taking someone else's fear inside of you. It was both mentally and physically exhausting, and it always made him feel just a little bit nauseous.

"You're really nervous around full moons, aren't you?"

Remus smiled wryly. "There's a reason that's the form my boggart takes."

Harry nodded, taking another deep breath. "I got it on the first try, that time."

Remus continued to smile as he walked over to his desk, and filled his kettle with a wordless _aguamenti,_ before casting the boiling charm on it. "You did. I really am impressed, Harry – you've learned most of these spells exceptionally quickly - I think you're a natural. Given, it's not really a surprise, considering how like Lily you are."

Harry smiled bashfully. "You're also an exceptionally good teacher, Remus," he said as he sat down on the spindly chair in front of Remus's desk.

Remus's smile twisted slightly, and he suddenly looked quite sad as he placed teabags in two mugs and filled them with water. "I enjoy it very much. It's a pity I can't do it for longer."

Harry frowned. "What?"

Remus handed him a mug. "Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? I've resigned."

" _Why?"_

"Oh, yes, well, someone let slip about my, er, condition, and let's just say the Board of Governors wasn't too pleased."

Harry gaped at him. "But – who – why -"

"I have a suspicion."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Professor Snape."

Remus smiled wryly. "Don't hold it against him, Harry. He's got good reason to dislike me."

"Whatever it is, it's been a long time. He should get over it."

Remus chuckled taking a sip of his tea. "Professor Snape has never been good at 'getting over things'."

Harry stared down at his cup, before taking a sip. "You don't say."

"Looking forward spending a few weeks at his house?"

"Not really, but it's worth it, if I get to live with Sirius after."

"I'm very happy for both of you," Remus said fondly, "You both deserve something good to come your way."

"Maybe you can come live with us."

Remus chuckled again. "As much as I'd love to, I've found a job, and it's not close by."

Harry frowned. "Where is it?"

"A wizarding settlement not far outside of Vancouver, in Canada."

Harry widened. "In Canada? Why?"

"Professor McGonagall has family there who are sympathetic to...people like me. They're willing to pay me quite well."

"But...but...isn't there _any_ work here?"

Remus smiled wryly. "It's very hard for people with my condition to find work with decent pay. I need to take what I can get."

"I...I can give you a loan!"

Remus shook his head. "I need to work, Harry."

"Well...well...couldn't you just, you know, portkey over or something?"

"International portkey use is heavily taxed, and it's difficult to get approval, especially for regular use. Not to mention, it would be very inconvenient to have to go through security at the Canadian Ministry of Magic every day."

Harry's face fell.

Remus tried to look reassuring. "It's only temporary, Harry, I'll be back before you know it. And I'll visit whenever I can."

Harry sighed. "I suppose so, but...how does Sirius feel about this?"

"Ah, well, he's not especially pleased either, but he understands." Remus paused, and took a sip of his tea. "You'll keep an eye on him, won't you, Harry?"

Harry frowned. "Am I keeping an eye out for anything in particular?"

"Well, you may have noticed that Sirius isn't the most..."

"Grown up grown-up around?"

"Well, yes, I suppose. He's not very good at thinking things through, all the time. He can be rash and brash, and has a terrible habit of finding himself in trouble. He's very good at getting out of it, of course, but it's best if he doesn't find it in the first place."

Harry nodded slowly.

"Now! You're welcome to stay, if you like, but I need to finish marking final exams – I'm rather behind." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I should have finished two days ago."

"Oh, yes, of course – no, I'll go...curfew is in a few minutes." He gulped down the rest of his tea and stood up.

"Oh, right. And before you go -" Remus began rifling around some of the papers in his desk, smiling when he pulled out a stack of bound parchment, and held it out for Harry to take.

Harry reached out and took it, staring at it curiously.

"They're notes," Remus explained, "Written by your mother."

Harry's eyes widened, and he almost dropped the parchment. "My _mother_?"

Remus nodded. "I found them while I was packing. They contain all the spells we've been working on, plus a few more, and all the theory behind them. There are also a few letters we exchanged, about the thesis project she was working on."

Harry stared at the stack of parchment in his hand, unabashed awe written all over his face. "Wow...I mean, thank you Remus. Thank you _so_ much."

Remus smiled. "They're rightfully yours. You deserve to know her as well as I did."

Harry hugged the notes close to his chest. "They won't go to waste, Remus, I promise."

"I'm sure they won't. Remember what I said though – practice caution. The more strenuous ones are carefully marked."

Harry nodded quickly. "Of course."

"Good. Now off to bed. If not before, I'll see you at the End of Term feast in a few days."

Harry grinned. "Goodnight Remus."

"Goodnight Harry."

Harry left Remus's office in high spirits, still gripping his mother's notes tightly in his hands. Instead of returning to his dorm, though, he headed for the Room of Requirement and summoned the Room of Hot Chocolate, where he plopped himself down on the red velvet couches and began to read.

He browsed some of the spells, at first, but, unable to temper his curiosity, soon decided to skip to the letters.

 _'Dearest Remus,_

 _I do hope this letter finds you well. James and I are, despite being kept quite busy by the Order. Professor Dumbledore has asked me to work on research for him – very fascinating stuff, I wish I could tell you all about it, but it's top secret – so between that and my thesis, I barely have time to sleep, let alone eat._

 _James is very busy as well. He and Sirius have an assessment coming up - they're about midway through their training now. I confess, a part of me hopes they fail their exams. These are dangerous times to work as an agent for the DMLE, let alone as an auror, and I can't bear the thought of hearing a knock on the door or receiving a letter or a firecall or however the DMLE does it, and having to -_

 _I'm sorry. I don't mean to worry you - James and Sirius are actually doing really well and have gotten excellent marks so far. Frank and Alice are keeping an eye on them as well. We really don't have anything to worry about. That's what I have to tell myself, anyway._

 _That unpleasantness aside...how is Wales?_ _I wish I could visit; it sounds lovely, and some new scenery could do me good. Being cooped up in the Potter Cottage isn't good for me, I think, but at least I've got lots to keep my mind off of it. Work, school, the book I'm writing -_

 _Oh, speaking of school, wait until you hear what I've found! There's this fascinating theory that a Spanish Wizard...'_

Harry blinked, as a drop of water suddenly stained the page – he realized a moment later that it was a tear.

 _Is something wrong?_

Harry shook his head, wiping his tears away. "I just...I guess...I wish you hadn't killed her."

Tom was silent.

"It's so strange – I barely remember her. I didn't even know her. But I still miss her. So, so much."

Tom remained silent for a couple more seconds.

 _I don't understand,_ he admitted.

"I know you don't."

They both fell silent.

 _If you are seeking an apology, Harry, you will be woefully disappointed. I am not sorry for what I did._

"I know you're not," Harry whispered. "I know you'll never be. And sometimes I really, really wish I could hate you for it...but I don't."

Tom hesitated for a moment. _Why?_

"Because...because I've been inside your head. And I know why. I understand. It hurts...but I can't hate someone for something they can't help."

 _Some might argue that no one can help anything they do. Some believe that free will is an illusion, that everything we do is predetermined, that all our fates are predestined by our pasts._ Tom paused. _Do you believe that?_

"...I don't know. I honestly haven't thought about that one. What about you? Do you believe in free will?"

 _I believe that it is foolish not to._

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Huh?"

 _Eloquent as every, Harry,_ Tom said wryly. _To deny free will is to admit powerlessness, to undermine oneself, to reduce oneself to a mere puppet. I do not find this to be an acceptable state of being._

Harry's lips twitched. "It's a little ironic then, isn't it? Free will might make you more powerful, but it's sort of freeing, I think, to accept that everything has to be the way it is, that there's nothing you could have done to prevent it, and every mistake you make in the future won't really be an error on your part. And the acceptance, the knowing, I guess, would give you a kind of power, right?"

 _Ironic indeed._

They both fell silent once again, and Harry wasn't sure how long he sat there, staring into the flickering flames dancing in the hearth.

"Do you ever miss your mother?"

 _Never. I hated her for her weakness._

Harry grimaced.

 _You knew that._

"Yeah, I just felt like asking. Don't know why."

 _You are an exceptionally strange child._

"It's your fault."

 _Perhaps._

"What do you mean, 'perhaps'? I was perfectly ordinary until you came along."

 _We both know that that is a lie._

"Perhaps."

 _You were never ordinary – you were always destined for greatness. I will say it again. Greatness is your birthright._

Harry smiled. "Thanks Tom."

 _I will not dignify that with an answer._

"You just did."

 _You are an obnoxious, overindulged child._

"Now that's just mean."

 _But true._

Harry laughed.

 _Foolish child._

"I love you too, Tom."

Harry froze.

 _...what did you say?_

"I mean...never mind."

Tom said nothing, and Harry cast his eyes downward.

 _'...a Spanish Wizard published in a journal in 1876. He theorized that every curse has a counterpart - not an countercurse, a positive opposite - and likewise for every piece of light magic there is a dark 'twin', if you will...'_

* * *

As soon as they entered the house, Professor Snape's upper lip curled in disgust.

"You have five minutes, Potter, to gather your things and meet me outside. Take longer than that, and I'll apparate without you."

"Yes sir."

And with that, Professor Snape turned on his heel and swept down the entrance hall, slamming the door shut behind him.

Sighing, Harry looked around. Nothing had changed – Number 4 Privet Drive stood pristine like a whitewashed prison, walls a cold pastel and furniture frigidly matched to perfection. Only the slightest layer of dust coated his surroundings, and that was the only sign that this place had been truly abandoned, for good.

Well, at least until the Dursleys were released from prison.

His head was buzzing, and his heart was thumping in his chest. This was it. This was the moment he'd been waiting for for over a decade now – he was free; he would never have to see this wretched place and the wretched people who once lived here ever again.

His footsteps were loud and hollow as he trudged up the stairs, echoing slightly in the emptiness of the house. When he reached his bedroom door, he opened it slowly, listening with satisfaction to the absence of the creaking sound Dobby had fixed a year ago. His bedroom was as he left it – mostly barren, with only a few muggle books left behind, along with his old red backpack. Reaching under his bed, he pulled out the shoe box containing Hermione's old discman and earphones and the various mixed CDs she'd sent him over the years, and shoved the contents into his red backpack, along with a few issues of _The Amazing Spiderman,_ and his copies of _Batman: Year One, Batman: Arkham Asylum,_ and _Thus Spake Zarathustra_ _,_ all stolen from the bookstore on Birch Street or the local library. And that was it – every piece of his muggle life. It was over. There was nothing more to it.

Anticlimactic.

Sighing again, he lifted the backpack onto his shoulder and quietly left the empty room behind, crossing the hallway – but he froze when he passed the bathroom door.

There was blood on the floor.

No there wasn't.

His finger was bleeding.

No, no it wasn't.

He remembered this room. He remembered so much about this room. It was the place he first met Tom. But it was also...

What? What was it?

Oh, right. He remembered now. He never really forgot. It was still so vivid in his mind. Sometimes. Like now.

His finger was bleeding.

It was just a finger. Just a little cut, right there. But it bled – a lot. What a mess!

He just wanted to know what it felt like.

It felt like being alive. Because life hurt. So much. Yesterday, today, tomorrow...it was always the same.

 _Freak._

 _Burden._

 _Worthless._

Nobody wanted him. Nobody loved him.

That's not true. God wanted him. God was waiting for him in heaven, with his mum and dad, and they loved him too. Right?

Father Matthews said so.

Mum and dad.

Heaven.

Father Matthews said there was a place for everyone in heaven. There was a place for him in heaven. With his mum and dad.

Why did he have to wait?

He didn't, did he?

When you die, you go to heaven. When your heart stops, you die.

Where was his heart?

Found it...probably.

It's worth a try, right?

One...two...three -

She screamed, and the knife clattered to the ground.

"You! What are you - w _hat are you doing!?"_

"It's ok, Aunt Petunia. There's a place for everyone in heaven."

"Go! Go to the bathroom and clean this up before Vernon comes down! You stupid child!"

The blood was all over him, now. Fingers bleed a lot.

The cold water was roaring in his ears, frigid as it ebbed over his skin.

He wasn't allowed to use the hot water without permission.

When you die, you go to heaven. When you stop breathing, you die. You can't breathe under water.

He wasn't one to give up.

He lay on his back, closed his eyes, and waited for a cold film to envelope him, exhaling one last time right before he pinched his nose as the water encased him entirely.

It hurt. His chest quivered, something angry crawling around inside, begging for release, threatening to burst forth at any moment.

Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Soon it will be over.

But it wasn't. Why was it taking so long? He couldn't take it anymore. He had to breathe. He had to -

Cold bathwater rushed into his mouth as he gasped, dragged down his burning throat as his lungs futilely begged for air. He tried to scream, and failed, and tried again, and failed, and tried again, and failed - but then it ended. It just...stopped.

He opened his eyes, and was met by black.

It stretched out around him, seeming to never end, formless and empty, except for a dim light rippling overhead, as though dancing above softly pulsing waves, distant and ethereal. It cast a faint shimmer over the dark, glassy surface he stood on, but revealed nothing else.

He took a step back, disturbing the water-encased surface beneath him, a wet, slapping sound breaking the silence as a web of delicate ripples fled the place where he stepped, expanding outward until they disappeared into the black.

"Hello?" he called, his soft, high voice sounding so very small in the dark expanse.

"Hello."

He spun around to find a woman standing behind him – the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her hair was like fire, and her eyes glowed emerald green in the darkness, glimmering as her pink lips curled into a soft smile; her feet were bare, and she wore a dainty summer dress, white and covered in sunflowers.

"Who are you?"

The woman looked amused by the question. "Do you not recognize me?" Her voice was soft and sweet.

"Are you God?"

Green eyes flickered in the darkness. "There are no Gods. There is only Death."

"Am I dead then?" Harry asked hopefully.

"No."

His face fell. "Why not?"

"It's not your time to die, sweetheart."

"Then when _is_ my time to die?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"It has already passed."

Harry frowned. "Then when can I die?"

The woman stared at him, smile still and unmoved, her face betraying no sentiment. Then, slowly, she began to walk toward him. "Are you not afraid of death?" she asked, her voice firm, demanding an answer.

"No."

The woman stopped in front of him and sunk to her knees, lowering herself so that she stood eye-to-eye with him, her smile faded into nearly nothing. "What are you afraid of?"

"Life," Harry replied without hesitation.

"And why are you afraid of life?"

"Because it hurts."

"And why does it hurt?"

"Because I'm a worthless freak."

The woman stared deeply into his eyes, her gaze piercing him mercilessly. "You _are_ a freak."

Harry nodded miserably.

"And you're beautiful."

Harry's mind stuttered to a halt, shocked into silence by the woman's potent and sincere voice. "...what?"

For a long time, she stared at him, and he stared back, mind empty, fixated on her vivid green eyes, which looked so incredibly familiar.

Without warning, the woman rose to her feet.

"Let's play a game, sweetheart." The smile had returned to her face, eager and encouraging.

Harry frowned. "What kind of game?"

"A secret game."

"Then how do I know if I want to play it?"

The woman laughed softly. "You're a smart boy, aren't you?"

"That's a question, not an answer," Harry pointed out.

The woman laughed again, and tapped him on the nose. "Have you ever played hide-and-seek?"

"No," Harry said, but then added quickly, "But I've seen other kids play it. Are we playing hide-and-seek?"

"Almost."

That was close enough for him. "I've always wanted to play hide-and-seek," he admitted quietly, but then went on in a louder voice, "Are you 'it', or am I?"

The woman poked him on the forehead. "Tag, you're 'it'."

Harry didn't know you tagged someone in hide and seek. Oh well. He poked her back. "Now you're 'it'."

The woman laughed. "It doesn't work like that."

Harry nodded. That was fair. "Alright. Should I close my eyes while you hide?"

The woman shook her head. "You won't be looking for me."

"Who do I look for?"

"Not who, what."

"Then what do I look for?"

The woman held up three fingers. "Three things."

"What are they?"

The woman winked at him. "That would be telling."

Harry frowned. "How do I find them if I don't know what they are?"

"That's part of the game."

Harry thought about this for a moment. He supposed it made sense. "Alright. What are the rules?"

The woman winked at him again. "They're a secret."

Harry stared at her in confusion. "Then how do I play?"

Smile widening slightly, the woman held out her hand. "Follow me."

So he took her hand, dainty and soft but cold as ice, and followed by her side as she lead him deeper into the darkness.

Wet sounding footsteps followed them as they walked, but they encountered no other sounds, and it occurred to Harry that they might be the only people for miles around.

But then he saw something, not too far ahead – a shape rising out of the ground. As they drew closer, he recognized the shape as a man, clad entirely in flowing black fabric – but he was not just any man; he was like no man Harry had ever seen before. His skin was pale – deathly white – and his face was serpentine, his lips thin and his nose nothing but slits, just like a snake's. He lay on his back, unmoving, his robes rippling only slightly as they drew near to him, sending tiny waves crashing against his still form.

"Who's that?" Harry asked.

"Tom Riddle."

"Is he dead?"

The woman seemed to find this question upsetting, because her green eyes grew darker and her lips drew into a thin line. "No, just sleeping."

Harry frowned. "He's not breathing."

"He's sleeping very soundly. In fact, as he is now, he will never wake."

Harry nodded slowly, unsure as to what that meant. "What does he have to do with our game?"

The woman's smile returned. "He's going to help you follow the first rule."

"What's the first rule?"

The woman winked again. "I told you, it's a secret."

Harry wrinkled his nose in annoyance. "Does _he_ know the rules?"

"He knows the first one."

"So I can just ask him?"

The woman chuckled softly. "He knows the rule but he doesn't know the game."

"Oh." Harry frowned. "So what now?"

"We wake him up."

"How do we do that?"

"With this."

Seemingly out of nowhere, the woman produced a knife – a stainless steel kitchen knife, identical to the one he was holding in his hands earlier, his blood still staining the tip.

Harry stared at it. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Take it," the woman said encouragingly.

Cautiously, Harry took the knife from her.

"Now what?"

"Do to him what you were going to do to yourself earlier."

Harry's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in horror. "But he'll die!"

"No, he'll wake up."

Harry stared up at the woman fearfully, only to be met by her serene gaze.

"Trust me."

Harry nodded shakily, and slowly made his way over to Tom Riddle, kneeling down beside him. He could feel his heart beating quickly in his chest, and he was breathing heavily now. He was afraid. His eyes darted over to the woman, who was still smiling, and she nodded to him.

"Trust me."

And for some reason, he truly believed he could.

He gripped the knife in both hands and drew it up over it head, plunging it down into Tom Riddle's chest a moment later.

The effect was instantaneous – Tom Riddle gasped, drawing a sharp breath, and exhaling harshly as Harry pulled the blade out. Blood was pouring from the wound now, wafting outward in intricate swirls, dancing through the air around them as though it was water. But even as the crimson liquid began to drench Tom Riddle's robes, seeping into the water below them, he remained motionless, save for the rising and falling of his chest.

Harry glanced at the woman, panicking. "He's not waking up!"

The woman, however, seemed perfectly unworried. "He will. Give it a few months. Maybe a year."

"A year?" Harry cried, "What if I break the first rule?"

The woman smiled at him. "Don't worry, sweetheart, you won't."

"But -"

He never finished his sentence.

He was in the bath again, coughing, throat burning as he expelled water from his lungs.

He stared at the wall in front of him, eyes wide as he shivered, his breaths coming out short and harsh.

His mind was blank, save for one thought, pulsing and throbbing in his mind - he had nearly died. And he was afraid. He was afraid of death.

"Potter!"

He was standing in the bathroom doorway. He was cold. He looked down at his hands, white and frigid, and he ran his thumb over his left index finger, just barely feeling the presence of the old scar.

Where - how - why - his mother -

"Mum..." he breathed.

His mind was buzzing, and all he could see were here eyes; all he could hear was her soft voice.

 _"Don't worry, sweetheart..."_

"POTTER!"

"Coming, Professor Snape!" he called hoarsely, before pausing, closing his eyes.

Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

What did he just see? What...what...

"What...?"

 _Harry?_ Tom's voice cut through his mind like a sharp knife.

Harry frowned, trying so urgently and desperately to understand why he was standing there, why he was dreaming, what he was dreaming...

"I'm fine, just...daydreaming."

Tom said nothing.

Taking one last deep breath, he picked up his backpack – which had at some point landed on the ground – and slung it over his shoulder, briskly descending the stairs and crossing the hall.

Professor Snape stood in the doorway, eyes narrow and mouth twisted into an unpleasant scowl; he said nothing as he flung the front door open, robes billowing as he strode outside.

Harry followed behind, pausing only as he stepped over the threshold; and with one last look over his shoulder, for a split second he shoved aside the static buzzing inside his head to revel, just for a moment, in the sentiment of freedom, smiling ever so slightly at the small door etched into the side of the stairwell – the cupboard under the stairs.

* * *

The End...for now.

* * *

The sequel will be up within a few weeks, but I'm going to take a bit of time to edit this first. Nothing too extensive and no retconning, but there are a few parts that I feel are too wordy or maudlin, and there are also some Author's Notes want to delete. Additionally, there are some bits where I feel like Harry's reasoning wasn't too clear or kind of...off, so I'll be fixing a couple of spots like that. I know it's bad taste to edit after you all have read it, but I really can't help it...I won't feel satisfied unless I do.

Anyway, the sequel is called Harry Potter and the Autumn Chrysalis (at least, it will be unless I change my mind again), and what I'll do is post one more chapter on this story to let you all know when it's up.

And finally, I want to thank all of you for reading my story. It means a lot to me to know that so many people have enjoyed my writing, and I hope that I've lived up to all the support I've been given. Thanks again, and see you all soon!


	52. Sequel!

The time has come - my sequel-continuation-thing has been posted!

Really sorry about the delay, by the way. I finally found a good job after a fairly extensive interview process, and so I had to find a place to live and move in and stuff. And if moving and adjusting to a new job hasn't been enough, the universe decided to do its thing and...well, you probably don't want to hear about it. Suffice it to say that for a couple of weeks things were a little too good to be true, and now I'm paying for it. Oh well, c'est la vie.

Anyway, I haven't actually had enough time to finish editing Harry Potter and the Accidental Horcrux, and I'm having second thoughts about the chapter I'm posting today (terribly terribly sorry if it wasn't worth the wait)...but I've decided to put my foot down. Enough is enough - I won't put this off any longer.

Anyway, sequel is posted. It's 'Harry Potter and the Chrysalis', by me, the Imaginizer.


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